Semantic Satiation
by JustSterling
Summary: They've come for Anna ... again. The Abbey has descended into sheer madness following the apparent murder of a staff member. The cops have charged Anna, based on little more than the word of a far more likely suspect. Upstairs & down feature. *You'd better come find out about this. Now someone's tried to kill Mrs. Hughes!
1. The Lead Pipe

They came for Anna – again – on a Tuesday afternoon in early April, three weeks after Mr. and Mrs. Carson were married, and four days after Andy managed to take a tumble down the stairs during the dinner service, leaving a trail of vegetables and Bechamel sauce in his wake, and breaking Thomas's foot when he stuck the landing. Andy, of course, emerged unscathed.

It had also been four days since Nanny Jenkins had run off with the groom's assistant. It had taken the better part of two panicked days for the staff and family to reach agreement on the question of where she had gotten off to, given that the most obvious answer – that the only two people missing from the estate were missing together – was simply inconceivable. The man was at least fifteen years her junior, and far handsomer than one would think might give rise to the levels of loneliness that could incline a man to go absent in the night with an old spinster nanny.

It wasn't that Nanny Jenkins was wholly unattractive. In fact, if observed from a silent distance, she might actually be considered a rather pretty woman. But her tendency to speak to adults in the same calm, condescending, sing-song tones that she used in addressing the children made her annoying, at best, and positively revolting, at worst.

Thomas had only come in contact with the nanny on a handful of occasions, but his mind had concocted a nightmare scenario in which he might one day have to serve at tea for an unlikely party that included Nanny Jenkins, Lady Grantham, and Phyllis Baxter. The mere idea of those three hens in one room pursing their lips and sympathizing in rolling whispers of high-pitched tones was enough to make his skin itch.

Thomas thought briefly about this imagined horror as he was sat in a chair in the butler's pantry, polishing silver to make himself at least appear useful. After three days trapped in his room reading and re-reading the same old newspapers and trying to balance on one foot to blow smoke out the tiny attic window, he had reached the conclusion that the best way to protect his oft-times tenuous position in the household was to make a very public attempt at staying productive while his foot healed.

Carson was seated at his desk, looking for all the world like he was pouring over the latest set of invoices and recording expenses, but Thomas wasn't buying the act. It was mid-afternoon, just about time for Mrs. Carson to use some bit of household business as a pretext to put in her appearance, giving Mr. Carson his opportunity to fawn over her. Carson was waiting, anxiously. He was so anxious for the appearance of his wife that the air around him nearly vibrated with nervous energy.

To say that marriage had changed Carson would be an understatement of the highest order. While Mrs. Carson certainly seemed to be enjoying a newfound level of friendly banter with her husband, it was Carson who was overwhelmingly taken with the implications of their new relationship. The man was absolutely and embarrassingly smitten.

Whereas the staff had always joked about the almost mythical ability of Mrs. Hughes to wrap Mr. Carson around her fingertips, it seemed that Mrs. Carson had actually woven the pompous, proper butler into a newly docile, wholly devoted version of his former self. Oh, the old man still put up the occasional fight for the sake of his dignity, to be sure, but, by and large, if Mrs. Carson wanted it, Mrs. Carson got it.

The change was evident to everyone – everyone it seemed, but Mrs. Carson, who continued to operate as if under the delusion that her husband was merely adequately fond of her, and that their marriage was to be largely one of convenience.

It was a peculiar dynamic. Thomas wondered how Carson had possibly managed to convince the woman to marry him whilst keeping her totally in the dark as to just how completely taken with her he actually was. Smitten.

Just as predicted, Mrs. Carson swept into the room within minutes to discuss her plans for averting the latest crisis. Since Nanny Jenkins had taken it upon herself to abandon her charges, it had fallen on the maids to take shifts watching over Master George and Miss Marigold until a suitable replacement could be retained. The situation, though not wholly unprecedented, had left the house in quite a tip and created one more point of irritation for Mrs. Carson to ruminate over with her husband.

"Anna is taking her turn now," Mrs. Carson said, "and Daisy has actually volunteered to sleep in the nursery this evening, but I'm not sure how long this can last. Our girls have their own work to do already. Of course, Lady Edith has been quite helpful, even relieving the maids herself. But do you think we might be able to get a young teacher in from the school to cover an occasional evening shift, just until a more permanent solution presents itself?"

Carson gawped at her for a long moment, wearing wide soft eyes and a soppy grin. Mrs. Carson was oddly oblivious to this almost zealous demonstration of devotion. Eventually, just about the time that his love-stricken countenance should have become blatantly evident to even the most naive schoolgirl, he opened his mouth to respond – undoubtedly, Thomas thought to acquiesce to whatever request Mrs. Carson placed before him today and into eternity – when Molesley stepped into the doorway to demonstrate the one skill he had perfected above all others: interruption.

"Mr. Carson, the police are here."

Carson leapt to his feet. Perhaps it was just Thomas's imagination, but it seemed that Carson instinctively reached an arm out in front of his wife in an attempt at a nearly-protective stance. Oh, good Lord.

The couple was still stood behind his desk as Sgt. Willis pushed past the footman and into the room. He was followed closely by a younger officer, who fairly fell into the room landing hard against the butler's table, driving the edge into Thomas's chest and rattling the silver.

Thomas glowered at the young officer and snarled low, "watch it, you bumbling..."

"Sergeant Willis," Carson greeted the officer with little apparent effort to cover his annoyance, "And what can Downton Abbey do for you today?"

"Ah, yes, this is my associate, Officer Taylor," Sgt. Willis said, pausing briefly as if for dramatic effect. An awkward silence filled the space as the group stared at each other. Surely, this clown did not come all the way out here to introduce us to his new playmate, so what is this about? Thomas wondered.

"Good afternoon, Officer Taylor," Carson said slowly, while maintaining eye contact with Willis. "And again, how can we be of assistance?"

"Well," Taylor started, just a tad too jubilantly for Thomas's taste, "we have come with an arrest warrant for one of your staff, a Mrs. Anna Bates."

Molesley emitted a sound from his mouth that sounded like something between a slowly whispered expletive, a hot panting dog, and a peahen cry.

Carson glanced quickly to his wife who was stood beside him blinking absently into the silver cabinet and gnawing on her lip. Finding no solace, but perhaps a purpose there, he quickly composed his facade and turned back to face Willis.

"What, may I ask, is the charge this time?" Carson intoned with all the imperiousness available to his muster.

"Thomas, run and fetch Mr. Bates," Mrs. Carson said, before the officer could answer.

He glanced at his foot, propped as it was on an overturned bucket, and opened his mouth to respond, but Carson interrupted.

"Mr. Molesley, ask one of the hall boys to run and fetch Mr. Bates from his cottage, please." Mr. Bates had been nursing a minor head cold for several days and had been ordered home for a short lie down by Mrs. Carson that very afternoon.

"Yes, yes, of course," Molesley stuttered as he tripped out the door.

Thomas thought for a moment about reminding Mrs. Carson of his position in the house, that it was 'Mr. Barrow,' not 'Thomas,' and that as under-butler it was well below his dignity to be sent on an errand to fetch anyone, much less the likes of Bates. He thought about it, but then he remembered that it was Mrs. Carson who held his hand and whispered words of comfort while he lay at the bottom of the stairs with a useless foot twisted in searing pain; it was Mrs. Carson who demanded the maids surrender aprons to be tucked between the hard stone floor and his ankle; it was Mrs. Carson who calmly told Phyllis to phone for Dr. Clarkson and bring them some ice; it was Mrs. Carson who glared white hot anger at Andy and ordered him to clean up his mess and keep his boisterous shenanigans to himself in future lest he actually manage to kill someone; and it was Mrs. Carson who visited his room after Dr. Clarkson had gone to invite him to come down as soon as he felt he could, with the utterly amazing suggestion that his presence below stairs might actually be missed. With all of this in mind, Thomas held his tongue.

"Mrs. Hughes..." Sgt. Willis began.

"Carson," Carson said pointedly.

The sergeant glanced from Carson to Mrs. Carson and back again.

Oh, good Lord, what difference does this make now? Thomas wondered with a roll of his eyes. But, of course, it would make a great deal of difference to Carson, and Thomas really would have expected no less. Smitten.

"What's that?" the officer asked, still not grasping the meaning of Carson's interruption.

"It is Mrs. Carson now," Carson stated, puffing out his chest and putting on his best butler air.

The sergeant glanced back and forth between the couple again before Mrs. Carson gave him a slight nod.

"Oh, I see. Yes, of course," Sgt. Willis said. "Ahem. Well congratulations to you both."

"Thank you," Mrs. Carson said, without a bit of sincerity while she pursed her lips and eyed the man through narrowing slits.

"Well now, Mrs. Carson then," Sgt. Willis again, "would you please fetch Mrs. Bates so that we may be on our way with as little disruption as possible, or must we find her ourselves?"

Mrs. Carson glanced nervously to her husband, as if awaiting guidance. Thomas found himself taken aback by what appeared to be her momentary indecision. The woman ordinarily appeared to be in complete control. Under most circumstances, she was exactly who one might go to with any crisis. He had certainly never seen her seek guidance or permission from anyone before acting – and most especially not Carson, married or not. Clearly, this ongoing Bates drama was beginning to take its toll. Mr. Carson might have been cowed under the romantic sentimentality of marriage, but Mrs. Carson? Certainly not. She was far too practical for such nonsense.

"I believe Lord Grantham is in the library," Carson said quietly. "See if you can ask him to join us as well."

She gave a tight nod, turned, and began towards the door without another word to the officers.

"Oh, and Mrs. Carson," Carson called out. She froze in the doorway. "I shouldn't think it necessary to bring any of the ladies downstairs for this."

Mrs. Carson blinked repeatedly as if she were trying to process his words and corral a lifetime's worth of thoughts. And then, rising to her full height, she walked on.

"Miss Baxter," she called with clipped tones into the servant's hall, where the lady's maid was addressing some mending. "I'll need you to come with me and watch the children for a few minutes if you are free."

"Of course." And their footsteps retreated up the stairs.

Carson stood quietly several minutes, observing the two officers from across his desk. The younger officer - what was his name? ah, Taylor – briefly attempted some manner of light banter; Carson responded with a glower that would have silenced a raging banshee. Or Miss O'Brien.

"Mr. Carson," Bates nodded as he leaned slightly against the door jam.

"Ah good, Mr. Bates, you're here. Do come in," Carson said, suddenly presenting an almost jovial and relaxed air, as if the assemblage hosted in his office was come for a lively tea rather than yet another attempt by the local constabulary to see a beloved staff member hanged.

Bates stepped cautiously into the room, eying the officers with all the openness and trust of one who had twice been convicted for crimes that even a simple-minded child would have recognized as the work of another.

"Mr. Molesley said you wanted to see me?" Bates directed his question to Carson while keeping his eyes planted squarely on the Sargent. "What's all this about?"

"Mrs. Hu..., er, Mrs. Carson has gone to fetch Mrs. Bates," Sgt. Willis said. "What say we wait until she arrives and discuss it all together, eh?"

Thomas, who was more than mildly surprised that no one had yet thought to ask him to leave the room, decided it best to draw as little attention to himself as possible, and so continued quietly polishing the silver while watching the strange assemblage from the corner of his eye.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Grantham began shouting well before he reached the butler's pantry. He bounded into the room to stand nearly nose-to-nose with the older police officer.

Anna trailed in behind him, glancing warily from one face to another before taking her place just in front of her husband. Mrs. Carson remained in the doorway, watching the scene in front of her unfold as if it were an obscure horror film running on some kind of bizarre repeating loop.

Mr. Bates wrapped an arm proprietarily around his wife's waist and took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was laboring to remain calm. If anyone knew how critical it was to stay calm in such a circumstance, it was, of course, Mr. Bates.

"Alright now, what is this about?" Mr. Bates asked. "We were given the impression that the matter with Mr. Green was concluded, and that his death had been ruled accidental."

"Oh yes," Sgt. Willis said breathlessly with a flourish of his hand. "The Green case remains closed for now, but it would seem that Mrs. Bates has left yet another body in her wake." The officer stared pointedly at Anna.

"Another body? Is this the latest trend in policing?" Lord Grantham bellowed. "Are the English police to just stop in at my home and round up a Bates every time a body is found between here and London?"

"This body was found near Stokesley," Taylor volunteered, failing in his attempt to feign an air of authority.

"Oh, I see, the Bates's bloody reign of terror has expanded north," Lord Grantham said, rounding on the younger officer and flailing his hands about in the air over his head. The officer clearly missed the sarcasm dripping from the earl's words.

"Now, Lord Grantham, that sounds fairly absurd if you think about it," he said. Thomas wondered if this man might be distantly related to Molesley.

"Yes, my point exactly," Lord Grantham said, rocking back on his heels and pressing his lips together. "This whole thing is, as you put it, fairly absurd."

"You will admit it strange," the sergeant interjected, keeping his eyes pinned on Anna. "Mrs. Bates certainly seems to know a fair number of people who have turned up dead."

"Well, just who exactly is it that has turned up dead this time?"

"Ah," Sgt. Willis glanced dramatically to his notebook, pausing as if to confirm the victim's name, although he clearly knew it. "One Mrs. Catherine Jenkins."

"Who?" three male voices rang out at the same time as Mrs. Carson asked, "Nanny Jenkins?"

Anna blanched and looked as if she were about to slide to the floor. Mr. Bates stumbled against the wall slightly in his attempt to steady his wife.

"Nanny Jenkins is dead?" Mrs. Carson asked distractedly as she crossed the room to pull a chair up for Anna to settle into.

"She is. Her nude body was found bruised and battered in a field last evening," Officer Molesley-alike said.

Thomas noticed Carson wince at the vivid description of Nanny Jenkins's remains. He briefly wondered if Carson's discomfort was for the dead woman or the women now hearing the description.

Anna seemed to be reminding herself to breathe as she made a glassy-eyed study of the floor and nervous glances were exchanged around her.

"All of us here thought that Miss Jenkins had just abandoned her position," Mrs. Carson said. "Anyway, I can't imagine what motive you would think that Mrs. Bates has for killing the woman. They hardly knew..."

"Well, as I said," Sgt. Willis interrupted, "if nothing else, it seems odd that Mrs. Bates should know so very many people who have turned up dead under such mysterious circumstances."

"As do we all," said Thomas. All eyes turned towards him with astonishment. Of course, no one was more surprised that he had spoken than Thomas himself.

They all studied him suspiciously, as if they were waiting for him to create some new and innovative version of hell right here in Carson's pantry. All of them, that is, except Mrs. Carson. Mrs. Carson rolled her lips and fought back the smirk that threatened to spread across her face.

"Are you suggesting that you all had a role in this murder?" Officer Molesley-alike asked. "Because that is interesting."

"Certainly not," blustered Carson, his eyebrows making a valiant attempt to burst forth from his head and alight on the ceiling. "No one has suggested any such thing."

Thomas calmly returned his attention to polishing the tray in front of him. He had the flittering thought that perhaps it was altogether odd the very number of people in this house who had even seen the inside of a jail cell. He wondered if there were more such stories than even he knew, but then dismissed the thought as unlikely as soon as it formed.

"I'm merely pointing out that we all of us in this room had knowledge of each of these people," Thomas said. "And I suspect if we thought about it, we could determine that there were a fair few more who came in contact with all of them."

The officers seemed to be ruminating on this new and intriguing idea as they shared in the study of a spot just beyond Thomas's left shoulder.

"So, why Mrs. Bates?" Thomas asked, continuing to buff the already spotless silver surface. "Why does it seem that you are so determined to build a case against our fair Anna here? She certainly seems the least likely of murderers, yet here you are, yet again, accusing her of just that."

"He's right," Lord Grantham said. "What more have you than the mere coincidence that Anna happens to have known more than one person who is now dead?"

"Well, there is the matter of the witness," Officer Molesley-alike stuttered out.

"Witness?" Mrs. Carson asked tightly.

"Yes," Sgt. Willis said. "We have a witness who says that he personally saw Mrs. Bates beating the victim, er, Miss Jenkins, with some sort of heavy lead pipe."

"It seems to me, you had a witness once before," Mr. Bates said pointedly.

"Yes, well, this witness knows Mrs. Bates. He has no question about what he saw," Sgt. Willis said with a nod towards Anna. "Or who."

Mr. Bates and Lord Grantham exchanged glances over Anna's head. The poor girl was so pale she seemed to be turning into a ghost right before their eyes.

"Well then, tell us, who is this supposed witness?" Mrs. Carson asked.

"Ah, yes," the sergeant's eyes returned to scan his notebook. He really is a one-trick pony, Thomas thought.

"The witness is one Harold Smythe," the officer intoned.

"Who?" Anna looked up sharply and asked, just as Carson was collapsing into his chair and muttering, "The groom's assistant."


	2. Mrs White in the Bedroom

_Sorry, folks, but Thomas and his broken foot can't go everywhere we need to go. So, here we have Chap. 2, in which Carson is far too morose and thinks far too much. But, take heart, if you hang in there with me, I promise Thomas will be back very soon._

* * *

Carson spent most of the night after Anna's arrest brooding and watching his wife sleep fitfully in her small bed across the room from his own. Like so many adjustments in their relationship, sharing a room had come about not as a single decision reached in consensus, but through a series of fits and starts undertaken individually. Within days of their marriage, estate workers had installed a door in the wall between the two rooms. The family had suggested several possible alternative living arrangements for the couple, but in the end Mrs. Carson's suggestion that they simply create a suite out of their current quarters had seemed the most practical and beneficial for the continued efficient management of their charges. If Carson had had his way they would have torn the wall down entirely and brought in a large double bed, but as his nerve never matched his desire, he had failed to even suggest this alternative.

For the first few nights after the door's installation, Carson had kept it respectfully closed, opening it only when he could concoct some pretext for needing to speak to his wife – and only after knocking and formally gaining permission, of course. It was Mrs. Carson who eventually set the tone for the door, when she simply threw it open on the fourth night with a vague mumbled request that it be left open so that she could talk to him without getting up.

The door remained open after, but while this seemed to satisfy Mrs. Carson, Mr. Carson found that he had begun to obsess over his inability to see her when she did call out to him. From there, his mind expanded to register significant irritation at his inability to see her, whether she was speaking to him or not. He started to think that perhaps, just perhaps, they could share a sleeping space and use the additional room as a dressing room.

And so it was that two weeks after they were married, Carson decided to spend the afternoon rearranging the furniture in their suite. He briefly entertained the thought that he might consult her on this decision, but in a move that harkened back to earlier days of their relationship, decided with a certain bravado that if she didn't like the change, he would willingly fight it out with her. And, it seemed to him that moving the furniture back after the fight would be less daunting than finding the courage to raise the issue to begin with.

He had first moved his bed into what was previously her room, situating it far enough from her own so as not to give the impression that he was placing any lewd demands upon her. Having nearly finished moving her dressers and arranging them in what in his mind was now to be their dressing room, he found himself at an impasse when her wardrobe hung on the door jam. It was at just this moment that Mrs. Carson entered her room with the intention of changing into her evening dress.

He watched quietly as she pursed her lips and looked first to him, leaning helplessly against the closet that was now firmly blocking the only potential escape from her gaze, and then around the room. In that moment, he was certain that she saw him to be the biggest fool in the Empire, but after a speechless pause she simply bestowed a half smile on him, crossed her arms, and shook her head with a glistening expression in her eyes that he couldn't quite place.

"You should have some of the hall boys up here helping you with this, Mr. Carson," she said with a quiet laugh. "This is precisely the sort of job we keep them for."

Then she helped him negotiate the wardrobe the rest of the way through the doorway. He finished arranging various odds and ends, and the incident was never mentioned again. And Carson found that, while they were still not nearly as close as he might have hoped in his deepest fantasies, simply being in the same room with his wife – able to see her and know that she was with him and safe from harm – soothed him and brought him a greater level of tranquility during the far too frequent sleepless nights than he could possibly have imagined.

* * *

"I'm sorry I woke you," Carson said. "I wanted to let you sleep a bit."

He had finished dressing for the morning and was just at the door preparing to go downstairs. He had been hoping to catch Lily and warn her off before her knock could roust his wife from bed.

Mrs. Carson rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and looked at him quizzically.

"Oh, don't be sorry. I like waking to find you here," she mumbled, stretching and turning to address her comments to the wall. "It is a pleasant reminder that good dreams can come true just as well as the bad."

A jolting silence fell on the room as all movement momentarily ceased. All movement. Anywhere. In the world. Carson shook his head, before regaining just enough equilibrium to collapse into the chair next to her bed.

"I'm a dream?" he asked somewhat wistfully while fighting back the smirk that threatened to overtake his face. It wouldn't do to look too cocky. Or overwhelmingly joyful. It wouldn't do to make himself look a fool by imagining more than what she was saying.

"Well, I'm not sure that you are exactly a dream," she said with a little laugh as she turned back to face him, "but, I do enjoy having you here." She reached out and touched his arm, giving it one swift downward rub before settling further down under her covers.

"I wonder how poor Anna fared through the night," she said with a sigh, after a few moments of silence. "And poor Mr. Bates. The suffering those two have endured, and now this, again, just when things were beginning look like they were getting back to normal."

He searched for words that might give her hope, but found his own hope in diminishing supply. The absurdity of arresting the girl for murder without any real investigation and based solely on the word of a man who even a casual observer might view as a fairly credible suspect was simply beyond the pale. After watching the gears of justice grind over the Bates for years, he was finding even his steadfast faith in the English administration of law faltering.

"How a man must suffer being separated from his wife during such a time," he murmured. He gave a start as he realized he had unintentionally given voice to his thoughts.

She smiled at him then, but her eyes were tinged with sadness and something else – something he didn't recognize in her. He was suddenly aware of just how close she was to him. And just how much closer he would like her to be.

His fingers itched to reach out to her, to sweep that stray tendril of hair back behind her ear, but it just seemed so very intimate. In more than two decades of knowing her, he had never initiated the slightest physical contact between them. The most he had done was respond respectfully to chaste caresses or an offered hand bestowed during moments of crisis or high emotion. Even those responses he would later look upon as potentially missed opportunities – chances to hold her, to feel her, to tell her, chances that he had let evaporate into a cloud of propriety and pride and fear. Of course, he had taken her hand at the beach. How he would have liked to take her hand now. And she did say...

"Mrs. Hughes," he started, as he slowly reached his hand towards hers.

"Carson," she replied with a smile.

"What? Oh, yes, of course." He could feel his face flushing with embarrassment as he dropped his hand to his lap. It was one thing for a member of the staff or family to make such a mistake, but it was entirely another for him to call his wife by the wrong name as he was practically hovering above her in her bed.

"I wondered," she said, smiling broadly as if she were completely unaware of his distress, "if we might not consider calling each other by our given names now we have been married for nearly a month."

The thought occurred to him that he rather liked calling her by his name – their shared name – and he might have hoped that she liked hearing it. He considered that maybe he should think about this issue before he answered; he felt intuitively that this discussion could trap him into some sort of debate for which he wasn't quite ready. For once, Carson was glad of Lily's interruption.

"Six o'clock," Lily called out as she rapped on the door.

"Thank you, Lily," Mrs. Carson shouted past him.

Carson gave his wife a smile and stood to head towards the door.

"Please, see if you can get some more sleep," he said to her. "I really don't think you had a very restful night."

She smiled lightly and cocked her head, studying him momentarily like she was trying to puzzle out his meaning.

"We are already short Anna and Thomas, not to mention being without a nanny, and you will likely have to take care of his lordship when Mr. Bates needs time to deal with this mess," she said pushing back the covers. "I won't be getting any extra sleep for some time, and neither will you. Now you go on. I'll be down shortly."

* * *

Mr. Carson descended to breakfast ruminating on his failings as a husband. In all of his imaginings about married life – and there had been many – he had never thought it could be this difficult, or that the difficulties could lie entirely within him. He had foolishly presumed that any marital struggles would have presented themselves in the same way all their previous conflicts had – as battles waged over standards, propriety, evolving expectations of the staff, the family. What he hadn't anticipated was just how willingly he would acquiesce to keep them in agreement on these once critical issues once the change in their relationship brought so clearly into focus his own overwhelming inadequacies.

It bothered Carson tremendously, perhaps more than it should, that there was so much he could not give his wife. His wife. His growing concern for her comfort had begun almost as soon as she agreed to bind her life to his. It had been such a frigid winter, and the servants' unheated attic rooms provided little in the way of comfort from the long frost-bitten nights. After years of Carson the butler never giving the comfort of his colleague a thought, Carson the man found himself suddenly frustrated in the knowledge that he had little more to offer his beloved to help beat back the cold than warm wishes and an extra glass of sherry at the end of a day often too long and always too taxing.

He spent many a lonely hour envisioning a cottage bedroom with a large fireplace and a soft, welcoming bed, thinking that if he were a better provider, a braver man, they could retire immediately and he could see her comfortable, warm, venerated. And then if she were to ever invite him to share that bed, perhaps he could finally believe that he deserved it. As it stood, he couldn't even guarantee her an extra hour of sleep, and this fact was driving him to near madness.

Carson took some small solace in the knowledge that his wife was totally oblivious to his churning despair. He knew with certainty that these things he viewed as catastrophic failings on his part did not bother her in the slightest, that she would never have considered herself to be lacking in the comforts she so richly deserved, and that she would likely have dismissed his insecurities as patently absurd. Mrs. Carson was a practical woman, and would never have considered pining for the extravagances, large or small, taken for granted by the lot above stairs. Somehow, this fact, above all others, made him all the more anxious to see her enjoy those comforts, and to be the one responsible for providing them.

Andrew came into the servants' hall just before breakfast was to be served, walked directly to where Barrow sat with his injured foot thrown across the chair next to him, and handed him a cigarette case.

"Thanks, Andy; 'ppreciate it," Barrow said as he moved his foot out of the chair and indicated that Andrew should sit.

Carson thought he noted something of a slyness in Barrow's tone toward the young footman. Andrew had been tasked with running a fair number of small, seemingly insignificant errands for Barrow in the last few days, and Carson thought perhaps he should keep an eye on the situation. Certainly, Andy's carelessness had been the cause of Barrow's unfortunate injury, but the lad seemed properly chastised for his actions and it wouldn't do to allow Barrow to take advantage of any feelings of guilt to bully him.

Mrs. Carson took a seat to his right just as he thought that perhaps he should discuss this Thomas situation with her. It had taken him years to admit it, but she really did have much better instincts when it came to staff relations than he ever would.

"Is Mrs. Patmore running late this morning?" Mrs. Carson asked as she looked around a table nearly full of hungry faces without a bowl in front of any of them.

"It seems the new kitchen girl managed to spread a large pot of hot porridge in a thin layer across the kitchen floor," Barrow answered snidely. "If I understand correctly, she was able to land a considerable portion on the stove and the wall behind it as well."

"Oh, my. Were there any injuries?" Mrs. Carson asked, eying Andy as she prepared a cup of tea for herself.

"I believe she did burn her arm rather seriously," Carson interjected solemnly.

"What next?" Mrs. Carson asked. "We do seem to be rather cursed of late."

"What's this?" Mr. Bates asked from the doorway, where he stood leaning on this cane.

Carson's chair scraped the floor as he leapt awkwardly to his feet upon seeing the man, obligating the staff to stand as well – all of the staff but Barrow, who had his injured foot as an excuse, and Mrs. Carson, who took it upon herself to give a vague wave to the staff indicating they should resume their seats.

Carson and Mr. Bates looked at each other for a moment. Carson, knowing it was absurd, still felt a sharp responsibility to find just the right thing to say to ameliorate the entire situation. In truth, he was powerless to find anything to say at all to the man. If he felt himself a failure as a husband because he couldn't allow his wife the occasional luxury of sleeping in, he couldn't begin to imagine how Bates must have felt, barely able to keep his wife steps ahead of the hangman as he was.

"Mr. Bates," Carson finally said, attempting to sound at once both welcoming and sympathetic, while assuming he was failing miserably in both regards. "We weren't sure whether to expect you this morning. Do come in. Daisy, bring Mr. Bates some breakfast."

Bates nodded quietly towards Carson and then moved to take a seat next to Mrs. Carson, who was eying her husband peculiarly.

"Daisy," Barrow called, with just a hint of mockery in his tone, "you might bring the rest of us breakfast too, whenever you're ready."

A small titter went round the table and Carson felt himself flush. He considered reminding the staff about his feelings regarding high spirits at breakfast, but dismissed the thought when he noticed that the incident had brought a small smile even to the face of Mr. Bates.

Breakfast, when it finally came, was a hurried affair. Owing to a combination of the need to rush to eat and the disquieting atmosphere surrounding Mr. Bates, few words were exchanged amongst the staff at all. Even Barrow was uncharacteristically quiet throughout. The bells, when they started ringing, were greeted by the staff almost as a welcome reprieve, rushing them on to start their days.

As Mr. Bates prepared to rise from his seat in response to his lordship's ring, Mrs. Carson reached out and placed her hand on his arm.

"Just tell us what you need, when you need it," she whispered.

"Thank you," he said tightly, in a low, wet voice.

Carson gave a final sad glance at his wife before crossing to the stairs to prepare for the family's breakfast service.

* * *

"Cora," Lord Grantham greeted his wife a bit too enthusiastically to be quite proper. "We don't often see you downstairs for breakfast. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"We are down quite a few staff members at the moment," Lady Grantham said as she crossed to the examine the chaffing dishes. "Everyone is pulling extra weight and I thought I would relieve Baxter of having to carry up my tray."

She smiled slightly in greeting to Carson, who was stood at attention next to the buffet.

"Oh, yes, dreadful business this. I imagine the situation has created quite the hardship below stairs," Lord Grantham said as he spread his napkin across his lap and twisted slightly to address the butler. "How are things going, Carson? Any problems we should know about?"

"The staff is handling things as well as we would expect, m'lord," Carson replied with a slight deferential bow. Carson would have greatly preferred that the family not concern themselves with imagined staffing problems until they were specifically told that such problems existed. "Of course, I believe the maids will be quite happy when a replacement is found for Nanny."

"Well, you may tell the maids that I will be interviewing candidates tomorrow," Lady Mary said. "And pass on our appreciation for their extra help during this time."

"Very good, m'lady."

"Edith," Lord Grantham began, "perhaps you would like to sit in with Mary during the interviews."

Lady Edith starred off morosely and picked about with her fork on a plate of eggs.

"Whatever for?" Lady Mary asked. "I'm sure as the mother here I am quite capable of selecting an appropriate nanny for my own child. And Edith's ward is being more than generously cared for whoever my choice may be."

"Well, I simply thought..." Lord Grantham began before Lady Edith glanced up sharply from her plate to give him an unusual look – equal parts pleading and withering at once. "Yes, of course."

Lady Edith then resumed her melancholic study, expanding it to the bottom of her still empty tea cup.

"I've had a letter from Tom," Lord Grantham quickly changed the subject between bites of toast. "He and Sybbie will be home for May Day."

"Oh, that is good news," Lady Grantham responded. "Does he say how long they will stay?"

"Not precisely, but I take it from the tone of his letter that things aren't going as expected in the States. Perhaps we can convince him not to return."

"Oh, Papa, that ship has sailed," Lady Mary said, grinning indulgently over her tea cup. "Best come to terms with it at some point." Indeed, Carson thought.

"Have you seen Bates this morning?" Lady Grantham asked turning to her husband.

"Yes, he was up this morning to dress me," Lord Grantham stated, turning his attention to the newspaper headline. "I have given him the rest of the day off to go to York and try to get in to see Anna. I told him not to come in tomorrow either, if for some reason he was not allowed to see her until then."

Carson arbitrarily thought about going downstairs, finding his wife, and kissing her. Firmly. On the lips.

"Have you spoken to Murray?" Lady Grantham asked.

"I phoned him this morning. He will be down on the afternoon train tomorrow to begin sorting through this mess," Lord Grantham said. "It was the earliest he could come."

"Are we really sure Murray is the best person to handle this?" Lady Mary asked.

"Why, Mary, whatever do you mean?" Lady Grantham asked. "Murray has handled the family's legal matters for decades."

"Of course he has. Our business matters, but this is not a business matter. Perhaps it is time to bring in someone more expert in criminal law to put a stop to all of this," Lady Mary said.

"Murray has done a perfectly reasonable job of dealing with the Bates' legal troubles in the past," Lord Grantham said.

"Has he?" Lady Mary asked. "It seems to me that the Bates are constantly just escaping by the skin of their teeth. Perhaps we could make them a bit more secure by putting some additional distance between them and the hangman's noose this time. I know I would feel better about it."

"You certainly can't believe that the Bates's ongoing problems can be traced to any inadequacies in Murray?" Lord Grantham asked with a touch of indignation.

Carson had never considered this issue before, but he found himself wondering if his lordship would use Murray, or any other transactional business solicitor, to construct his defense if he were ever to face murder charges.

"All I'm saying is Anna and Bates have been through quite enough," Lady Mary said. Quite right. "And I can't help but think that a solicitor more qualified in handling criminal matters might have been able to impress upon the police that constantly framing up our servants on trumped up murder charges was perhaps not their best plan of action."

Carson wasn't certain exactly how one might impress such a thing on the local constabulary, but overall he thought that a criminal charge likely did call for an attorney more practiced in the area of criminal law.

"Edith, do at least have some tea," Lady Grantham said, signaling for Carson to pour. "You look quite pale. Are you sure you are feeling alright?"

Lady Edith, who had now moved on to making a melancholy study of the painting above the sideboard, was suddenly overtaken by wildly raging tears just as Carson stepped behind her. She always was the one of the three most taken with melodrama, Carson thought.

"I really thought he loved me," Lady Edith burst out between body-wracking sobs. Was there no end to the suffering this poor girl would put herself through?

"Who? You thought who loved you?" Lord Grantham asked, breaking through the speechlessness that had overtaken everyone else in the room at this sudden display.

"Ha-rold," she choked out. Oh, dear Lord, no. She couldn't have.

"Who?" cried out three voices in unison.

Carson released a ragged sigh, rolled his eyes, and murmured, "The groom's assistant."


	3. The Rope

Thomas spent the better part of the morning sitting alone in the servants' hall feeling shocked at how quickly one became bored when living a supposed life of leisure. Carson had come down directly after the breakfast service and inexplicably disappeared out the door without a word to anyone, leaving Andy alone to handle clean-up of the glassware and plate. Phyllis was taking yet another turn up in the nursery, while the housemaids were off doing whatever it was that housemaids did at this time of day – changing linens and dusting something or another, Thomas imagined.

So consuming was Thomas' boredom that he thought he might even like to attempt a chat with Molesley at this point, but Molesley had volunteered to end an argument between Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson by running to the village to fetch some ingredient the cook alleged the housekeeper had failed to stock. Owing to Molesley's penchant for tormenting random strangers and acquaintances alike with vacuous conversation, he was not expected back before luncheon.

After his third perusal of a tattered four-year old copy of "The London Magazine," Thomas thought he might be well served by a cup of tea and a change of scenery. He struggled to balance on the crutches that were already chaffing under his arms, and hobbled down the hall to the kitchens. Rounding the corner, he suddenly found himself loudly and inartfully sprawled across the floor and lying partially atop an item over which he had apparently tripped.

"Bloody hell," he shouted as he turned to try and extricate himself from whatever it was that seemed to be grasping and tangling at his crutches and one good foot.

"Thomas," Daisy gasped. But he noticed that her tone wasn't one of concern for his potential injuries, as it might have been just a few years before, but a subtle chastisement for his hollering and choice of language.

"Don't just stand there," he called to her. "Come and get this mess off of me. Whatever is this?"

"Come on, let's help him up, Daisy, before he shouts the bloody roof down," Mrs. Patmore said, wiping her hands on her apron.

He twisted and turned on the floor to discover that he had tripped over a huge pile of rope that had been mysteriously placed right inside the kitchen door. Daisy took his crutches and pulled them free from the tangled mess, while Mrs. Patmore pulled him to his feet.

"There you go, Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Patmore said patting him on his back, as Daisy made a production of propping each of his crutches back under his arms. "None the worse for wear, are you now? Lily, go and tell the hall boys to get this rope out of my kitchen before someone breaks their bloody neck on it."

The new girl – Lily – was on her hands and knees, still trying to scrub up the last of the porridge film that she had spread across the entire kitchen earlier in the morning. As she jumped to her feet and ran from the room, Thomas noticed that her arm was bandaged and thought that must be where she burned herself.

"What is that doing there?" Thomas panted out. "Bloody hazard, that is."

"Some of the clothes line went missing a few days ago," Daisy said. "Mrs. Carson said it was about time to replace all of it anyway, so she ordered that rope. It was just delivered today – delivery man just dropped it there."

Thomas looked from Daisy to Mrs. Patmore, searching for verification of this bizarre story.

"Come over and sit down, Mr. Barrow, you still look a bit shaken," Mrs. Patmore said. "You're sure you're not injured?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Thomas said absently as he moved to fall into the chair next to Mrs. Patmore's small desk. "Whatever do you mean some of the clothes line went missing?"

Daisy and Mrs. Patmore exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Well, I think it were the morning after your foot got hurt," Daisy said. "Some of the laundry maids went out to hang sheets and came back in saying the line was just gone. Not all of it, mind, just a couple of lengths. But, like I said, Mrs. Carson said the line was getting worn anyway and ordered enough rope to replace it all."

Thomas didn't know what to make of this story. Even in a house where earl's daughters eloped with chauffeurs and servants were snatched from the gallows, this seemed decidedly odd.

"Has clothes line gone missing before?" Thomas asked.

"No, of course not," Daisy replied. "Who would make a habit of stealing clothes line?"

"Well, who would do it even once?" he retorted.

"Indeed," Mrs. Patmore chortled softly.

Lily returned shortly with one of the smallest of the hall boys trailing along behind her.

"Oh, good, Lily, make Mr. Barrow a cup of tea, please. He looks a little bit shaken after all," Mrs. Patmore said.

"What can I do, Mrs. Patmore?" the young boy asked, clearly eager to please.

"Oh, Arthur, that pile of rope is bigger than you are," Mrs. Patmore smiled widely at the boy. "Tell some of the other boys to come help you get it out of here. And don't tangle it up, mind. I imagine you boys will have to be the ones to string it up if Mr. Carson ever comes back."

"Alright, Mrs. Patmore," Arthur said, clearly a bit disappointed to be reminded that he might need help with the task.

"Eh, Arthur is it?" Thomas called to him as the boy turned back towards the hall. "Could you try and push it out of the doorway just a tad so no one else trips over it?"

In his defense, the boy appeared to make a genuine effort, but quickly gave up and abandoned the room when the reality of the task overtook his desire to impress.

Thomas sat silently for a few minutes, watching Daisy and Mrs. Patmore work on the night's pudding – evidently an apple tart. Daisy was nearing the bottom of a basket of apples she had been peeling and slicing. The slices were already mixed in sugar and spices and sitting in bowls on the work table, where Mrs. Patmore was working her crust.

Lily delivered Thomas his tea and then went back to scrubbing the floor. He noticed that the girl still had a fair amount of work ahead of her, what with the wall behind the stove covered as it was in congealed slop.

"When did you say this clothes line went missing?" Thomas asked.

"Like I said, I think it were the morning after Andy fell down the stairs," Daisy said.

"In't that the same night the nanny were done in?" Lily asked from her place on the floor. This one might be brighter than we thought, Thomas observed.

"Not necessarily," Daisy said. "That's the night she went missing. None of us knows when she were killed." Thomas thought maybe Daisy was trying a little too hard.

"Well, of course it..." Lily said. "When else could it have happened?"

"Anytime after she left 'til they found the body," Daisy said. "The police didn't say they knew when it happened."

"Sure they do. That witness must 'ave told them when 'e saw Anna killing her," Lily said.

Daisy glared at her.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, and neither should the police," Daisy chastised the girl. "Anna's not a murderer."

"Well, I admit, it don't make much sense. In't the murderer always a jealous lover?" Lily asked. Even Thomas was a bit put off by the girl's casual use of that word. She couldn't have been more than 14 years old – a child, really – what did she know of lovers and the like? "That's the way it always is in detective stories, in'it?"

"Do you even read books?" Daisy asked the girl haughtily.

"Now, now, Daisy, don't be unkind," Thomas said with a smirk. "You don't want to discourage the poor girl now, do you?"

"Thomas is right, Daisy," Mrs. Patmore said with a shake of her head. "Oh, dear Lord, what has my day come to that I should have to say something like that before luncheon?"

"Now, Mrs. Patmore," Thomas chastised, standing to balance on one crutch and reaching towards the bowl to pluck out an apple slice. "I'm shocked. You don't want to discourage me now, do you?"

"You?" Mrs. Patmore asked, slapping his hand away with a laugh. "You should be discouraged at every chance we get. Now, the lot of you, get on with your work."

Thomas grasped his chest dramatically.

"You wound me, Mrs. Patmore," he said.

"I'm going to wound you if you don't let my girls get some work done around here," Mrs. Patmore said, lifting a large knife off the table to wave in Thomas's general direction. Thomas briefly wondered what kind of damage Mrs. Patmore might work on a man with that knife, given the proper motivation of course.

"If the police think Anna killed her, well, I think maybe she did," Lily said after a few moments of scrubbing in silence. "Oh, maybe Mr. Bates and the nanny were..." Well, she's entertaining if nothing else, Thomas thought.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, girl. Don't be daft. Anna never killed anybody," Mrs. Patmore said rolling her eyes. Leave it to Mrs. P. to spoil all the fun.

"Well, who did kill 'er then?" Lily asked wide-eyed. Thomas wondered momentarily if the girl believed the cook was watching the incident unfold in the crust she was rolling.

"If you ask me, my money's on that Smythe fellow," Daisy said, dropping the last core in the basket and wiping her hands on her apron.

"Who?" Lily asked, her voice echoing as she stretched to reach under the stove.

Just then, Carson rounded the corner and walked straight into an unexpected pile of rope. Tripping only slightly, he caught himself dramatically on the door frame and in a voice dripping with irritation he said, "The groom's assistant."


	4. Mr Green in the Sitting Room

Carson returned from his walk with one thought in mind: he needed answers that only his wife could provide. He had gone out to get some air and clear his head after that unusual display at breakfast, but found that as he tried to think on anything other than roiling images of Anna and Nanny Jenkins and Lady Edith and that bloody groom's assistant, he found his mind locked on one question. He didn't know why it was gnawing at him now. It had virtually nothing to do with the current situation, and it really didn't matter after all this time anyway. But no matter how he tried to logically work around it, he found that his heart – his ego – demanded explanation.

So, he walked straight to the kitchen, and after tripping less than elegantly over an inexplicable pile of rope, he requested that one of the girls bring tea to Mrs. Carson's sitting room. If he was to brave this conversation, he might need sustenance. He then waited in his pantry until he heard the kitchen girl heading to deliver the tray, and walked deliberately behind her.

"Do you have a few minutes, Mrs. Carson?" he asked, nodding a dismissal to Lily.

She was seated at her desk, apparently reviewing cleaning rotas.

"Can this wait until..." she began, before turning to face him and taking note of his countenance. "Oh no, I see it cannot. Well then, have a seat."

She granted him an open smile as he settled into the chair closest to the now closed door. She moved to the chair across the table from him and began pouring out the tea.

"Mrs. Carson," he said, stirring his tea calmly. "Do you think we should be concerned about Barrow bullying young Andrew?"

She smiled at him indulgently for a moment and opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again as though she thought better of it.

"Is this really what you wanted to speak to me about, Mr. Carson?" she finally asked, her eyes twinkling with unexpressed mirth.

"What? No, but I noticed this morning that he has had the boy running for him a good bit of late, and I just don't want him taking advantage of the boy's good nature or perhaps guilt over the whole broken foot fiasco," he said, looking at her pointedly.

"Well," she said, burying her growing smirk in the examination of her cup, "I really don't think we have anything to worry about on that front, but if it will make you feel better, I will keep an eye on the situation and let you know if I think you need to intercede."

"Yes, yes, I would appreciate that."

"Alright then, now that is settled," she said, placing her cup in its saucer and reaching across to give a brief squeeze to his arm rested on the table between them. "What is this actually about?"

He paused, not quite knowing where to begin, but certain that he had gone too far to turn back now. He stared off to his left, focusing his attention on a small vase resting in her china hutch. The vase was empty. He thought the forget-me-nots would be in bloom soon, and maybe he should bring her some.

"Why did you never tell me about Anna?" he finally asked quietly.

He felt, rather than saw, her stiffen as her spoon dropped and clanged heavily against her cup.

"Anna? What about Anna?" she asked taking her spoon back up and stirring again. She was almost too calm in that moment. He knew from experience that she was constructing a facade.

"Don't," he nearly whispered, "not now. You know what I'm referring to. Why did you never tell me about...Mr. Green, about what Green did to Anna?"

The air hung heavy around them. She was still stirring her tea, lifting the spoon out and dipping it back into the cup again and again. Time stretched on. He started to wonder if she was going to speak again at all, and whether he should just drop the issue altogether if she didn't.

"Mr. Carson," she finally began quietly, hesitantly. "Do you recall when I was called to testify in Mr. Bates's trial?"

"Yes, of course," he said, shifting in his seat and studying the murky contents of his cup as he swirled it cautiously in his hand. He wasn't sure where she was going with this, but it seemed to him the conversation had already taken an uncomfortable turn.

"Do you recall me telling you about the specific questions the prosecutor asked?"

Noticing that his hands had begun to shake, he moved to place his cup back in its saucer on the table between them.

"Yes. He questioned you about the conversation you overheard..."

"Eavesdropping. I was eavesdropping," she stated quickly.

"Alright. You were eavesdropping," he said.

She studied him intently, chewing her lip as if trying to determine how best to proceed without creating more tension between them.

"Did you ever wonder how the prosecutor knew to ask those particular questions? How he could have known that I had been eavesdropping on that conversation, and how damaging the contents of that conversation had been?"

He turned to her with a start.

"No," he fairly hissed. "Did you?"

"Yes, of course I did," she said lowly. She rose from her chair and crossed the room to stare intently into the looking glass. "You were the only person I told about what I heard."

This last part was spoken as little more than a whisper, but its impact was felt as a scream.

He could feel her watching him beyond her shoulder in the glass. He leapt to his feet and paced into the middle of the room and then turned to walk toward the door. It was too much. It was all too much.

He thought momentarily of leaving the room, coming back later and sorting this out after he had time to think. But he knew he couldn't leave things like this. Not this; not her.

Upon reaching the door he turned on his heels and met her eyes in the mirror. Pulling himself to his full height, he jutted his chin forward, clasped his hands behind his back, and put on his most imperious air.

"Are you suggesting that I …"

"No," she said continuing to hold his eyes in the mirror.

"I never ..."

"No," she repeated, glancing away. "I am simply stating that I wondered. I did not like having to wonder."

He felt his body deflate as she turned to face him. He looked to the floor, unable to meet her eyes. Gods, this was difficult – painful to imagine that she might have felt he had betrayed her, that she could not trust him. What ever was there for him if she did not trust him?

"You could have just asked," he murmured.

She barked out a skeptical laugh that sounded almost like a sob. He felt his brow furrow in frustration.

"No, Mr. Carson, I could not," she said with a sigh. "It was a very difficult time, for all of us. It was certainly not the time to open that type of wound between you and me."

He collapsed back into his chair, reached for his tea, and downed it in one gulp, momentarily hoping he might find something more bracing than dregs in the bottom of the cup. He spent several moments trying to rein in his emotions before he next spoke.

"So, this is why you didn't tell me about Green, a- about Anna? Because you felt you couldn't trust me?"

"No. No," she said vehemently, crossing to her desk chair and pulling it around to sit in front of him. "You are getting this all wrong. Perhaps I am saying this all wrong."

He glanced up at her and then lowered his gaze to his hands placed awkwardly in his lap.

"Mr. Carson," she said, reaching out to take both his hands in her own as she bent slightly in an attempt to force eye contact with him. "You must believe me when I say this. There is no one I trust more than you. I would trust you with my life. I do trust you with my life."

"How …," he started. But then he found he simply did not know what else to say.

They sat in silence for several moments, each trying to find the words to continue, as she ran her thumbs over the backs of his hands.

"Mr. Carson, I'd like you to try and understand what I am saying. When you and I talked about those things, those things that Mr. Bates said to his wife, nothing had happened. She was still alive. There was no police investigation. It seemed there was no reason for us not to discuss it, really. And, looking back on it, I always had complete confidence that if you had repeated anything I told you, then you had a perfectly valid reason to do so. I never once thought that you repeated anything I said to you in malice or to do harm to Mr. Bates."

"I would never..."

She stood and made two laps around the room, before stopping to address her comments to the bookcase.

"I know. I never blamed you. I blamed myself. When I was called to testify, and they asked me those questions, and then Mr. Bates was sentenced to hang, well, it was clear to me that I had let them both down so horribly. Mr. Bates and Anna, that is."

"Mrs. Carson, you didn't..."

"No, I did. I eavesdropped on a private conversation and then repeated it to you without a moment's thought – just a bit of gossip on which a man's life would balance. Who's to say, to this day, who might have been listening to our conversation, who might have told the prosecutors and police just where to get that information? Who's to say?"

"So, you didn't blame me?" Carson asked, grabbing hold of the small glimmer of hope that she might be offering.

"No. Regardless of who passed the information to the prosecutors, I blamed myself. Looking back on it, I saw that I had just been so reckless. And that recklessness almost cost an innocent man his life. So, when the police came around saying they were investigating Mr. Green's death, I knew I could not be that reckless again. I wouldn't discuss the matter with anyone else."

He eyed her archly. "But you already had," he said. "You told Bates and Lady Mary about Anna's attack well before Green was even dead."

She spun towards him as if startled by his words.

"I don't know how you come by that information," she began slowly, "but I'll not deny it. I'll simply say that circumstances as they were, it was necessary that those two know."

"So, is that why you didn't tell me – I mean before the police became involved – because it wasn't necessary?"

He found himself more than a little hurt at the idea that she had just casually decided not to share something this important – something that so deeply affected not only a member of his staff, but this woman with whom his very life had become so hopelessly intertwined. That she might have made this choice to shut him out simply because she didn't find it necessary that he know tore at him in ways he couldn't have imagined. He had the sudden notion that if she didn't find it necessary to share something this significant with him, perhaps she didn't find him necessary at all.

He glanced at her and found that her brow was furrowed in concentration.

"No," she said, "that's not exactly how I would describe it. You see, I told them because it became necessary that they know, but even if I had thought it necessary that you know, I'm not sure I would have told you. About Mr. Green. And Anna, that is. Honestly, I think I would prefer if you still didn't know."

"What?" he shouted. He bounded to his feet with such force that he was propelled into the middle of the room. "How can you say that? I understand that Anna didn't want anyone to know, but I am still butler here, and you are saying you would have kept this from me even if it became necessary that I know?"

"Not precisely," she said in clipped tones that made her irritation at his outburst clear. "What I said was I would not tell you."

"Forgive me," he said after a moment, "but I'm having trouble seeing the distinction."

"If, for some reason, it had become absolutely necessary for you to know, I would have arranged things so that you found out, but I honestly don't believe that I would have told you myself."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure I could have," she whispered. "There are still things, things about that night, things about what that man...things I could never bring myself to tell you."

"I don't understand you," he said quietly.

"I think we have well established that over the years," she replied with a sigh of resignation.

"Well, help me. I'm not even certain I understand what you are saying."

"Mr. Carson, we are very different people, you and I. We view the world and our roles in it in very different ways."

"Alright," he said, willing her to continue.

"I would assume that you take the safety of the people in your charge very personally."

"Yes, but don't you? I am certain this attack on Anna affected you deeply. Didn't..."

"Yes, Mr. Carson, I must admit that it did, but I am more...practical than you."

"More practical?" he asked, shuffling from one foot to another.

She sighed. It was clear to both of them that her explanation was going nowhere. He wondered if what she was saying even made sense to her.

"Mr. Carson, I wouldn't have told you because I wouldn't have wanted to be the one to cause you that pain."

"Pain?"

"Yes, pain. The pain of knowing that a man like that could come into our home and do something so, so...vile and unspeakable to Anna – our Anna – and then just walk away," she said, her voice beginning to rise. She pinched the bridge of her nose and he noticed that her eyes were growing damp. He wondered if he shouldn't just call a halt to this conversation before it went any further.

"Mr. Carson, I am aware that you must recognize that the world outside these walls may contain unimaginable horrors," she said. He wondered if that statement wasn't just a tad melodramatic for someone who was constantly being described as practical. "But this particular horror...I didn't want it to taint..."

She had crossed her arms and begun pacing a circle so tight that she was nearly spinning in place.

"I couldn't protect Anna from...I couldn't protect Anna. I couldn't protect Mr. Bates from the pain of knowing what that monster did to his wife, from the guilt at not having been there to stop it, from the all-consuming rage and fear and disgust. I wanted to protect you from having to face any of it. And if I couldn't protect you, then I wouldn't be the one to deliver the blow."

"But, why would you feel that you needed to protect me?"

"Not needed, so much." She paused to eye him while gnawing on her lip. "Wanted. I wanted to protect you from having to suffer that type of blow to your view of...I don't know – the world, justice, chivalry, propriety. I don't really know exactly."

"Fine, wanted, but the question remains: why?"

She released a deep ragged breath – the kind of exhalation one ordinarily reserves for an idiot child or an adult who is being irritatingly, and perhaps purposely, obtuse.

"Because, quite simply, Mr. Carson," she said, turning to meet his eyes. "I love you."

Suddenly, it seemed there was no available air in the room.

At that moment, at that very moment, there was a knock on the door as someone pushed in.

"Excuse me, the..."

"Not another word, Mr. Molesley," Carson said firmly, without taking his eyes off his wife.

"But..."

"Not one word," Carson demanded. "Now, step back through that door and close it behind you. And then you stand in the hallway and do not let anyone, and I mean anyone, so much as glance in the direction of this room until I call you back in here."

Mrs. Carson shut her eyes and bit down on her bottom lip as if trying to fight back the peals of laughter threatening to erupt from within her at any time. Carson had never found his wife more enticing than he did in that moment.

Molesley tripped past the door, pulling it shut with a crash.

Mrs. Carson sniggered for a moment before finding her self-control.

Carson took a step towards his wife.

"Now, Mrs. Carson," he nearly whispered, "would you mind repeating what you were just saying?"

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips.

"Repeating?" she asked.

"Yes," he said taking another step closer and finding the courage to take her hands.

"What I was just saying?"

"Yes."

"Very well," she said. She sighed and closed her eyes, as if bracing herself before breathing out, "I love you."

Carson stood in a state of nearly suspended animation for several moments, staring at her as he tried to find his voice. He blinked in an attempt to contain the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

"Well," he eventually said, "that's good then."

She eyed him skeptically, with a sudden air of hesitant nervousness.

"That's good?" she asked, licking her lips and glancing towards the corner of the room.

"Yes, that's very good." His heart was beating so fast and loud in his ears he was sure it could be heard in the village. He felt a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He thought for a moment that this was just how he felt before he collapsed in the dining room that time during the war. He wondered if he was about to collapse again.

She studied him expectantly for a moment before carefully extricating her hands from his grasp. He all-but fell two steps backwards, as if the loss of contact left him reeling.

"Perhaps we should check and see what Mr. Molesley needed," she said, quietly attempting her most professional tone.

"Must we?" he murmured. "Oh, yes, I suppose."

As she walked past him towards the door, he reached out to stop her, touching her arm and running his hand down to grasp hers. They stood for a moment, hand-in-hand, facing away from one another. He barely noticed that she seemed to be holding her breath.

"Mrs. Carson," he said in shaky tones.

"Yes?" she asked tightly.

He forced out a labored breath, working to push aside decades of denial and doubt and fear.

"I love you too," he finally said, voice cracking only slightly. "More, I'm afraid, than I could possibly find words to adequately express."

For a moment, she seemed to make an intense study of the door knob, and then suddenly all the tension dissipated from her body.

"Well," she said quietly and with an almost mischievous smile, "that's good then."

"Yes, I think it is," Carson said wistfully. "I think it's very good."

She took a deep stabilizing breath and gave his hand a final squeeze, before releasing it and opening the door.

"Mr. Molesley, what is it we can do for you?" she asked the man who she found standing nearly at attention and guarding the door exactly as instructed.

"Ah, the police are here to see Mr. Carson," he said. "They say they have some additional questions about Mr. Smythe."

"Who?" Mrs. Carson asked absently as she stepped into the hall.

"The groom's assistant," Carson muttered, scrubbing his hand over his face as he walked towards his pantry.


	5. The Pistol

Much to Thomas's surprise, Molesley returned to the house shortly after Carson. Dodging a small gaggle of hall boys who had finally come to drag the rope away, he strode proudly into the kitchen and deposited the object of his errand – a single tin of mace – on the desk in front of Mrs. Patmore with all the self-satisfaction of a big game hunter returned from the blackest jungles to display his latest kill.

"Oh good, Mr. Molesley, I see you found..." Mrs. Patmore looked up from the perusal of her receipt box to discover that a tin of spice was not the only thing Molesley had brought into her kitchen. Two police officers had trailed in behind him, and were now rocking back on their heels anxiously awaiting their notice.

"Sergeant Willis," Mrs. Patmore said with a start. She eyed him warily as she removed her reading glasses and rested them on the desk, surrounding the spice tin with the temple pieces. "What can we do for you today?"

"We'd like to speak to Mr. Carson," Sgt. Willis said. "Is he available at the moment?"

Mrs. Patmore glanced cautiously to Thomas, who was seated in the chair to her right nursing his third cup of tepid tea and wondering how his life had gone so horribly wrong. He looked from Sergeant Willis to the other officer – oh, what was his name? – and sighed.

"Is there anything I could help you with?" Thomas asked as he collected his crutches and prepared to stand.

"No, no, we need to see Mr. Carson specifically," Sgt. Willis said. "We'll be happy to wait a few minutes if someone would kindly fetch him for us."

Thomas noted with more than a bit of irritation that the sergeant's comment was delivered more as an order and less as a request. He was certain that the last thing Carson wanted to do was spend the rest of the morning entertaining the police. Ordinarily, this fact alone – that Carson might be irritated by the intrusion – would have sent Thomas gleefully running to find the man. But something ineffable in Willis's manner had come to rile Thomas, and he found himself interested more in frustrating the sergeant's plans than Carson's.

"Mrs. Patmore," Thomas said, forcing his most congenial tone while steadily eying the officers, "I am going to escort these men to Mr. Carson's pantry. Would you ask one of your girls to bring us tea?"

"That's not necessary..." Officer – whatever was his...oh, yes – Taylor began.

"Nonsense," Thomas said as he hobbled towards the officers. "I believe that Mr. Carson is meeting with his lordship right now. He may be a few minutes. And we certainly need to make you comfortable. We wouldn't want there to be any questions about our hospitableness here at Downton. There seem to be enough nasty, unfounded rumors circulating of late."

Thomas and Mrs. Patmore exchanged a meaningful glance.

"I'll have your tea sent in right away," Mrs. Patmore said, a bit too boisterously.

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Patmore," Thomas said giving a nod towards Molesley. "And then could you send someone to fetch Mr. Carson? I believe you know where to find him."

Molesley, unsurprisingly, looked rather confused by this whole exchange. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Mrs. Patmore.

"Yes, of course, but as you say, it may be a fair few minutes," she said.

Thomas squeezed past the officers and into the corridor. Leading them across to Carson's pantry, he gave a glance towards the housekeeper's sitting room and sent up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that the butler wouldn't chose this precise moment to casually stroll out that door.

Just as Thomas, resting on his crutches and one foot, reached to push open the door, Officer Taylor stumbled and with a yelp fell against Thomas's back. Thomas was knocked off balance and propelled head first a considerable distance through the doorway. He reached out just in time to catch himself as he fell hard against the edge of Carson's desk and his crutches crashed loudly to the stone floor.

"Whatever next?" Thomas shouted before regaining some semblance of his composure and rising to stand on one foot.

Officer Taylor made a production of bleating out an apology as he ran about and collected the crutches. This man is definitely related to Molesley somehow, Thomas thought.

Thomas, attempting to reassert a measure of his dignity, reached to tug at his waistcoat before he remembered that he was not wearing his livery because his cast would not fit through the pants leg. He made do, instead, with running a hand over his hair before snatching the crutches from Taylor's waiting hands and waving the officers towards the chairs.

Suddenly anxious to put a physical barrier between himself and Taylor, Thomas hobbled around to settle himself in Carson's desk chair. That this arrangement might prove an irritant to Carson should he ever arrive was, Thomas thought, an added bonus.

They sat in awkward silence for several minutes, Thomas staring openly at the officers, who in their discomfort both tried to look anywhere but in his direction.

"Well," Thomas began, "have you lot figured out who actually killed the old nanny yet?"

Taylor shifted nervously in his chair.

"We are confident in the direction our investigation is taking us," Sgt. Willis replied.

"Good, good. Should we assume that means we will soon see the release of Mrs. Bates?" Thomas asked.

Taylor turned to look at him in alarm. Thomas hoped for his sake that the man wasn't a gambler.

The officers were saved from having to answer when a knock announced the arrival of the tea. After placing the tray on the desk, Lily looked to Thomas for an indication of dismissal even as she began to back out the door.

"Lily," Thomas said, while continuing to eye the officers critically. "Would you mind pouring the tea before you go? It's a bit difficult for me to serve on crutches." The girl looked warily from one face to another as she prepared tea for each of the men, before fairly bolting from the room.

"And, please, help yourselves to some biscuits," Thomas said waving a hand towards a plate piled high with shortbread. Glancing at one another, the officers thrust their hands forward and began transferring biscuits to their saucers. For a moment, Thomas wondered if one or both of them might actually begin filling their pockets with shortbread.

After what seemed an age of watching these two men devour a plate of biscuits with a level of charm and grace that might have rivaled a rabid animal on the prowl, Thomas began to wonder what was taking Carson so long to arrive. After all, he was just next door. Thomas might have wanted to inconvenience the officers a bit, but he hadn't been planning on making a career out of the game.

"I'm just going to check and see if we have had any luck in locating Mr. Carson," Thomas said. "You enjoy those biscuits and I will be back shortly."

Making his way into the hall, he shut the door behind him and glanced towards the housekeeper's sitting room. He was shocked to see Molesley standing at attention just at the door, eyes sweeping right and left as if surveying the corridor. This seemed an absurd bit of behavior, even for Molesley whose every behavior seemed to define absurdity, Thomas thought.

"Mr. Molesley," Thomas whispered as he approached the man. "Whatever are you doing?"

"Mrs. Patmore told me I would find Mr. Carson in Mrs. Carson's sitting room," Molesley said.

"Yes, and you were supposed to fetch him back to his pantry."

"I tried," Molesley said, "but Mr. Carson ordered me out of the room."

"He what? Did you tell him the police were here to see him?" Thomas asked, dropping his voice even lower.

"I didn't have the chance. As soon as I walked through the door, he told me not to speak a word and ordered me out of the room."

Thomas raised his eyebrows at this.

"He what? Is Mrs. Carson in there with him?"

"Oh yes, and Mr. Carson told me to stand here and prevent anyone else from approaching the door."

Thomas fought to suppress a grin from spreading across his face.

"Well, well. Whatever else?" Thomas muttered with a shake of his head. "Mr. Molesley, give them fifteen more minutes and then knock on the door."

"I don't think..."

"Mr. Molesley," Thomas said lowly as he leaned in towards the man. "I am not prepared to spend the entirety of my day entertaining the Keystone Cops in there. Give them fifteen minutes. No more."

Molesley swallowed hard before nodding his head.

"And Mr. Molesley," Thomas said lightly, "from now on, you might want to knock and wait until they open the door instead of just charging in, for your own sake." With that, he chuckled and shook his head as he turned back towards the butler's pantry.

Thomas had barely settled himself back in Carson's chair when he heard footsteps and voices from the hallway.

"Oh good, Andrew," Carson's voice wafted through the door. "Would you and Mr. Molesley please go up and make sure the table is laid for the family's luncheon? I apparently have visitors, but I will be up shortly."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

When Carson stepped into the room, he spotted Thomas seated in his chair, lifted his eyebrows, and came to an abrupt halt, causing Mrs. Carson, who had been following on his heels, to barely avoid walking directly into him.

"Mr. Carson," Thomas said as he began to rise from the chair, "I was just..."

Carson cut him off with a flourish of his hand. Eying him warily for a moment, Carson opened his mouth as if to speak, but appeared to decide against it. Instead he just sighed, and with a vague wave, indicated that Thomas should just remain seated.

Turning to the officers, Mr. and Mrs. Carson stepped further into the room and took positions standing side by side. Something had changed here, Thomas thought. Something in the way they were stood seemed more – relaxed? – he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He thought back to his conversation with Molesley and shuddered inwardly. He didn't want to think what these two might get up to alone in her sitting room – or anywhere else. Shudder.

"Sergeant Willis, I certainly hope you have not come to arrest another member of my staff," Carson said, turning his attention to the officer.

"No, no," Sgt. Willis said. "I just have a few questions for you."

"Alright, ask your questions," Carson said, allowing every indication that his patience for being interrogated was likely thin.

Willis elbowed Taylor. Taylor began flipping awkwardly through his notebook. After finally settling on a page, he looked up at Carson and offered a clumsy grin. Carson stood at full height and refused further eye contact, granting instead only an air of indifference.

"Yes, er, Mr. Carson, have you noticed any bed sheets missing from the house?" Taylor asked. Thomas thought he actually heard the man's voice crack under the strain of asking a simple question.

"That question might better be addressed to the housekeeper, as she is the one who maintains the linen inventory," Carson said in his most professional tones.

"The housekeeper?" Taylor asked.

Mrs. Carson rolled her lips, but could not prevent a smile from spreading across her face.

Willis elbowed Taylor again, indicating Mrs. Carson with a nod.

"Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Carson," Taylor asked, "have there been any bed sheets missing from the house?"

"I have no idea," Mrs. Carson said. Taylor looking genuinely perplexed by this answer.

"You have no idea? But..."

Mrs. Carson sighed. "In a house this size, a single bed sheet could go missing at any time and I might not be aware of it until I next do inventory," she said, her tone sounding a bit like she had been forced into trying to explain high maths to a small child. "As far as I know, none are missing."

"We would be happy to wait while you go check," Sgt. Willis said. Thomas rolled his eyes. The gall of this man.

"You will not," Mrs. Carson said.

"Mrs. Carson, we..."

"It would take me several hours to inventory the linen. I have no time for such an undertaking. If nothing else, we are a bit understaffed at the moment."

"Now, Mrs. Carson, certainly..."

"What is this about?" Mrs. Carson asked tightly.

Willis sighed and glanced around the room as if considering how much information he wanted to disclose.

"A bed sheet was found with Miss Jenkins's body," he finally said. "We need to know if it came from this house."

"Did you not say she was found nude?" Thomas asked, his tone laden with repressed laughter.

Carson's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, but he continued to stare otherwise impassively at the wall past Sgt. Willis's head.

"She was nude, under the sheet," Sgt. Willis said through gritted teeth.

"The best I can offer is that you may bring me the sheet and I will tell you if I recognize it," Mrs. Carson said.

"It's just an ordinary white sheet," Taylor said.

"Well, if it is that ordinary, I will likely tell you that I cannot recognize it," Mrs. Carson said. "Regardless, that is all I can offer on this matter."

"I'm not sure we can do that, Mrs. Carson," Taylor said. "It might not be entirely appropriate."

"Then don't," Mrs. Carson said curtly. Carson started and turned momentarily towards his wife with a soppy grin. Shudder.

"Was that all?" Carson asked. "Because as we have indicated we..."

"No, Mr. Carson," Willis said. "I have some questions for you about Harold Smythe."

"Yes, well, any questions you have about Mr. Smythe might best be addressed to the groom, as he is his superior, not I."

"I understand, but these questions aren't in regards his employment. They are more about Mr. Smythe personally," Willis said. What ho? What is this all about? Thomas wondered.

"Personally?" Carson asked his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yes, how long have you known Mr. Smythe?"

Carson glanced nervously around the room. Thomas imagined he might be wishing that he had asked him to leave before all this began. He even considered volunteering to leave, but then thought better of it.

"How long...I wouldn't say that I know Mr. Smythe at all," Carson said. "You would have to ask the groom how long he has been in the estate's employ."

"Mr. Smythe has indicated to us that he has known you since childhood," Officer Taylor said.

"Since childhood? Whose childhood?" Carson asked, eyebrows furrowed. Well, I shouldn't imagine he meant yours old man, Thomas thought.

"His childhood. He said you and his mother were rather friendly when he was a boy. According to him, you were on the stage together."

Carson's eyebrows shot up. Mrs. Carson began gnawing her lip. Thomas sat up straight in his chair and immediately began to ruminate on how he might uncover more about Carson's newly-discovered past. The stage indeed.

"I don't know anything about this," Carson said. "I don't believe I ever knew a boy named Harold Smythe. And I haven't spoken to the man to exchange a dozen words." Thomas was shocked to discover that he didn't know whether Carson was telling the truth. He had never known the man to lie, but something about his tone wasn't quite right.

"Well, he says he has known you for quite a long time and that you would vouch his character should the need arise," Sgt. Willis said.

Mr. and Mrs. Carson exchanged pained glances.

"Certainly not," Carson said. "I know nothing about this man other than that he has apparently convinced you of a number of dreadful lies."

"Why would your witness need a character reference?" Mrs. Carson asked. "Isn't it ordinarily the accused looking for someone to vouch his character?"

"Yes, that is an interesting question, now isn't it," Sgt. Willis said. "We didn't ask him for a character reference. He simply volunteered that Mr. Carson here would provide him with one should the need arise. He said they were quite good friends."

Mrs. Carson raised an eyebrow. "Whatever does that mean?" she asked staring off at the window.

Whatever, indeed?

"If that is all Sergeant, I must insist that you allow us to get on," Carson said, no longer trying to hide his irritation with the officers.

"Just one more thing," Willis asked. "Do you know if Mr. Smythe owns a gun?"

"Was Nanny also shot since last we met?" Thomas asked. "I thought you said a lead pipe was the murder weapon. Has the Yorkshire countryside now been overtaken by a rash of people being killed twice we need to concern ourselves with?"

"I don't think you understand the situation," Carson said, ignoring Thomas's comments entirely. "I do not know the man. I would have no knowledge of a gun if he did own one."

"Have any of you ever seen this before?" Taylor asked, producing a pistol from his pocket with a flourish and slamming it down dramatically on the desk – barrel pointed directly at Thomas.

"Bloody hell," Thomas yelled, scrambling to move aside of the potential line of fire. Carson put his wife behind himself. Sgt. Willis gave a pained smile and casually reached past Taylor and turned the gun so it at least wasn't pointing at anyone.

"What is wrong with you, bringing a weapon in here and tossing it about like that?" Thomas shouted while trying to regulate his suddenly ragged breathing and racing heartbeat.

"We found that pistol near the body and we were hoping perhaps..." Taylor said with a shrug.

"You are uncertain whether bringing a sheet here appropriate, but you thought this a good idea?" Thomas asked incredulously.

"Sergeant Willis," Carson said in the slow measured tones of a man fighting a losing battle to control his rage, "I think it best if you go." Bloody right it's best they go, Thomas thought. "If you have any further questions, you may telephone."

The officers exchanged a glance.

"Very well, Mr. Carson. I think we got the information we came for," Sgt. Willis said. Thomas quickly reviewed the conversation in his head and thought he couldn't imagine that they had gotten any information at all.

Taylor reached to retrieve the pistol still sitting on Carson's desk.

"No," Thomas said throwing his hands behind him in search of his crutches. "You'll not touch that weapon until I have left this room."

Thomas struggled to rise from his chair and hobble out the door. Making eye contact with Mrs. Carson he jerked his head towards the door. She gave him a weary smile and shook her head.

Thomas roamed down to the servant's hall and with far too much effort took a seat next to Phyllis who had completed her rotation in the nursery and was vesting her attention in a cup of tea.

"Bloody odd day," he muttered more to himself than anyone else.

Phyllis just smiled.

From his position at the table, Thomas could just see Carson showing the police the door. He turned to retreat to his duties, stopping at the foot of the stairs only when his wife called out to him.

"Do you have any idea what this is about?" she asked, running down the hall to stand beside him. "Who is this man that says he has known you since childhood?"

He gave her a befuddled look and shrugged his shoulders. With a shake of his head and a quirk of his brow he said, "The groom's assistant?"


	6. Mrs Peacock in the Library

_A/N: It has come to my attention that if you missed chapter 4, or simply didn't notice the time overlap between chapters 4 and 5, you might have taken the same false impression from chapter 5 that Thomas did. The Carsons have not (yet) gotten up to any monkey business in Mrs. Carson's sitting room. It was only Thomas's assumption that was what was going on. Sorry to disappoint, but we never know what the future may hold..._

* * *

As the day was shaping up, Carson considered the irritations surrounding the service of luncheon were about on par with what he should have expected. After ordering Andrew and Molesley to lay the table for four family members, Carson entered the dining room to discover that only Lord Grantham would be in attendance. Ladies Grantham and Mary had gone to the dowager for lunch, while Lady Edith wished to take her meal in the nursery with the children. Carson quickly took a tray to her himself.

In addition to having to contend with the irritation expressed by Mrs. Patmore when much of the fruit of her labors was returned unappreciated, Carson was left aghast by the explanation that he had been caught so off-guard because when the ladies had attempted to ring and give notification of their plans, no one had answered the bells. While somewhat understandable given the upheaval that had been rendered below stairs, this was certainly not the staff's finest hour.

Carson was sat in his pantry madly trying to focus on the numbers swimming across his ledger book. His accounts were already desperately behind, and he felt it crucial that he get this work done during what he perceived could be the only moment of calm within a growing storm of turmoil poised to revisit the house at any moment. But in spite of all attempts to address his attention to the task at hand, Carson's mind continued to return to a single inundating thought: his wife.

It had been a decidedly emotional and confusing day, and Carson could have wanted nothing more in those moments than to simply sit and discuss its many developments with the only person with whom he would ever consider having such a conversation. For the previous hour, he had actively worked to avoid her, not wishing to frustrate her attempts to complete a growing list of tasks he knew more than rivaled his own. After decades of impassively working beside the woman, it seemed that he had been reduced to a pathetic mass of need within the course of a single unusual day.

"Mr. Carson," Andrew's voice ringing from the doorway tugged him from his gloomy preoccupation. "His lordship says the family is to take tea in the library at three o'clock. He asked specifically that you serve."

"Very good. Thank you, Andrew. Please inform Mrs. Patmore."

Carson turned to rest his eyes upon the ledger once again before giving in and slamming the book shut. Glancing at the wall clock, he noted that he had fifty-three minutes before his presence was required in the library. Fifty-three minutes.

"Mr. Carson," the object of his preoccupation called to him from the door as if on cue, "I know it unusual, but I wondered if you might have a few minutes to take a walk."

He smiled broadly at the clock on the wall before adopting a slightly less gleeful air to turn and face her.

"I think I might be able to spare a few minutes," he said.

* * *

"I have no idea who the man is, Mrs. Carson. I truly do not," Carson insisted. They had chosen to sit on a bench on the lawn, just far enough from the house so as not to be overheard. "I have tortured my brain trying to figure this out. All I know about him is that he is the groom's assistant. I don't believe I'd ever heard of the man before a few months ago."

"But, he clearly knows who you are. He knows about your time on the stage."

"Yes, it's bewildering, isn't it?"

"It is that," she said turning to face him. He looked over and noticed that she was forced to squint into the sun as she looked up at him. Standing, he placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her to slide down the bench to the spot he had just occupied.

"I wouldn't even think the man was anywhere near old enough to have been born during my time on the stage," Carson said dropping to sit on the other side of her.

She stared up at him with raised eyebrows, her lips pursing comically.

"Now, don't start that. He's nowhere near old enough for that either," Carson said. He reddened as he realized the direction that this conversation seemed to be taking. "Not that there is any chance...there was no...I wasn't..."

"It's alright, Mr. Carson," she said giving his arm a playful squeeze, "the situation requires an explanation, but I wasn't given to assume that was it."

He wasn't sure quite how he felt about that comment. He checked his pocket watch and noted that it was now half two. He would have to go in fifteen minutes.

"I wonder if Mr. Grigg might know anything about this," she pondered.

"Grigg?" he asked with a start. This was something he hadn't considered. He had heard stories of Grigg using his name to get work after they parted. And he suspected the scoundrel had used his name to avoid certain complications with his...women even before that.

"It's possible he might," he sighed.

"Mrs. Crawley might still know how to get in touch with him. Perhaps I should..."

"No. Absolutely not."

"But, if we want to know..."

"If you want to know the truth, you don't go looking for it from Charlie Grigg," Carson sneered. "We have enough troubles without inviting more by seeking out that man."

* * *

At precisely three o'clock, Carson pushed through the door of the library carrying a tray laden with the tea service. Molesley straggled slightly behind carrying a second tray full of sandwiches and biscuits. With a nod to each of the four family members who were already seated on the sofas, Carson crossed to the table and began to pour.

"Molesley, please close the door on your way out." Lord Grantham commanded. "Carson, I'd like you to stay. This involves you too."

Molesley quite literally fled from the room. Carson fought to maintain an impassive expression, as a hard ball of anxious confusion settled in his chest. His battle was not quite successful.

"Yes, m'lord," he intoned with raised eyebrows before taking up a position close to the door.

Lord Grantham crossed to stand quietly before the fireplace for several moments, pulling at a glass of whisky as if chasing for fortification at the bottom.

"Papa, what is this all about?" Lady Mary finally broke the silence that had overtaken the room.

"I received a message just after luncheon today from Harold Smythe," Lord Grantham began.

"Who?" Lady Mary asked. Carson defeated the urge to roll his eyes.

"Harold?" Lady Edith burst from her seat, seemingly with a new-found enthusiasm for life. "What has he said, Papa?"

"Perhaps you should see for yourself," he said, passing her a folded sheet of paper with one hand while sipping his drink from the other.

Lady Edith fairly snatched the paper from her father's hand before running back to bounce into her place on the sofa like a schoolgirl. Lord Grantham continued to nurse his drink, while Carson watched Lady Edith and stood by for the inevitable explosion of heartbreak. He didn't have long to wait. She had barely begun her perusal of the letter before she twisted the paper in her hands, released a wail, and collapsed into a coiled heap of tears.

Lady Grantham reached across and delicately plucked the note from her daughter's fists and smoothed the paper across her lap as she took in its contents.

"A thousand pounds?" Lady Grantham exclaimed, passing the letter on to Lady Mary. "That's just ridiculous."

Lady Mary's eyebrows rose higher by degrees as she quickly scanned the missive.

"I'm supposed to be interviewing candidates tomorrow," Lady Mary said. "I should think that we're going to have a rather difficult time hiring staff after word of this gets out."

"Mary, that's enough," Lady Grantham breathed.

"Well, obviously the allegations in this letter are absurd," Lord Grantham said with a flourish of his hand, "but it seems that Mr. Smythe has proven quite capable of doing significant damage with his false accusations. The question now is how we are to manage him."

"Yes, well," Lady Grantham began cautiously, "perhaps not all of the allegations are quite as absurd as they might first appear."

Lord Grantham eyed his wife as if she had just told him that the King had eloped with an American prostitute.

"Are you actually suggesting that you had a role in this woman's murder?" Lord Grantham demanded.

Oh, good Lord. This situation had gotten entirely out of hand.

"No, of course not," Lady Grantham laughed. "I simply helped Edith remove the body from the house."

"You what?" Lady Mary gasped.

Edith's sobs grew louder. Lord Grantham looked wildly about the room as if searching for cover before finally moving to stand rigidly in front of the windows.

"And what was Carson's part in all of this?" Lord Grantham addressed his question to the countryside. "He is mentioned by name in this letter."

Lady Mary turned to Carson, who raised his hands in surrender and began to shake his head as a cold panic descended over his body.

"Absolutely none," Lady Grantham said. "Really Robert, do you think I would call on Carson to help move a body? It's Carson."

"Just what does that mean?" Lady Mary asked.

For the second time in a day, Carson briefly wondered if he might be about to collapse.

"I would just never...Mary, it's Carson we're talking about," Lady Grantham explained. "If I needed help from below stairs to move a body, I would more likely call on Mrs. Carson."

Just what does that mean? Carson wondered.

"When precisely did all of this body moving take place?" Lord Grantham asked tightly.

Lady Grantham shifted in her seat and looked vaguely off to her right as if searching for the memory.

"It was the evening you and Mary took the children on a walk down to the folly after dinner," she said.

"I remember. Edith was in the nursery when we returned," Lady Mary said turning to her sister. "You told me that Nanny had just gone downstairs for a headache powder."

Lady Edith responded with a wail.

"I believe at that point we had her tucked away in Edith's bedroom," Lady Grantham said.

"Edith's bedroom?" Lady Mary asked.

"Well, I wanted to put her in the linen closet, but Mrs. Hu...Mrs. Carson keeps it locked," Lady Grantham said. "We had to put her somewhere until the house was asleep so we could remove her."

"So then you stripped her body and drove her to Stokesley? Isn't that where you said the body was found, Papa?"

Lord Grantham, who had been seemingly engrossed in a tense study of the gardens, turned and gave a firm nod.

"No, no. When we left her she was fully clothed and leaned against that large wych elm about a mile outside the village," Lady Grantham said. "She was surrounded by a blanket of daffodils. It was really quite lovely."

"Daffodils?" Lady Mary asked incredulously. "Doesn't that seem a bit..."

"For God's sake, Cora. This isn't the American Middle West where you just drop a body in a gulch and it's swallowed into the annals of time."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. What exactly do you think goes on in the States, Robert?"

"I am beginning to wonder," he murmured, crossing to pour himself another measure of whisky.

"I can't even imagine what has been going on in my own home," Lady Mary said. "What is all this? Mysterious stable hands, blackmail schemes, dead nannies being smuggled out under cover of darkness. Just what else have the two of you been up to?"

"Might I remind you, Mary, that this was not the first body I have helped carry through this house?" Lady Grantham fairly hissed at her daughter.

Lady Mary was momentarily taken aback. She glanced cautiously up at Carson, as if she had forgotten he was in the room. She probably had; they probably all had. He saw a fragile vulnerability flash through her eyes for just a fraction of a second before the curtain of imperiousness fell.

"And might I remind you, Mama," Lady Mary spat out, "that the last time you helped carry a body through this house, Anna was carrying the other arm?"

Oh, good Lord. Was there no end to the indignities that girl had been asked to suffer?

"Well, I certainly didn't bring Anna into this. I don't entirely understand how the police came to believe she was responsible, but it seems it had something to do with this man Smythe. It wasn't through me."

"You certainly haven't done anything to set the record straight and see her released," Lady Mary said.

"Well, what was I to do? Phone the police and say 'release the maid, come get my daughter?'"

"Really Cora, this is madness," Lord Grantham said. "Anna and Bates have been good and loyal servants, friends to this family for years. We cannot just allow this to continue."

"The girl's innocent. Murray will prove that and she'll be released," Lady Grantham said, brushing a hand over her skirts as casually as if she were discussing plans for the next garden party.

Carson cringed. This simply could not be happening.

"And we're just to let her sit in jail until that happens? At what cost, Mama? Anna could be facing the gallows. Just how much do we expect people to sacrifice to satisfy our caprices?"

"Caprices? I don't understand you."

"Clearly. And you, Edith, what in the world were you thinking?" Lady Mary asked. "You are Lady Edith Crawley not the downtrodden antiheroine of some penny dreadful. If you wanted the nanny gone all you had to do was fire her. You certainly didn't need to kill the woman."

Lady Edith glared at her through wet red-rimmed eyes.

"Why must you always think the worst of me?" she mewled.

Lady Mary barked out an ironic laugh.

"Edith, really, you've killed a woman. I hardly think..."

"No, I have not," Lady Edith said, jumping to her feet. "I tell you, I did not kill her. I did not touch her. Well, at least until after she was already dead."

Carson realized with a start that he had long since abandoned an appropriate posture and was leaned against a bookcase scrubbing a hand over his face. He was even more startled when the thought occurred to him that he no longer cared.

"Now, Edith," Lady Grantham tutted. "There is no point in denying it now."

"Of course there is, Mama. There is every point. I did not kill that woman. You just assumed that I did."

"Well, what else was I to assume when I found you hovering over the woman like that?" Lady Grantham asked.

"Oh, I don't know, Mama, perhaps that your daughter is not a cold-blooded murderer."

"Well, if you didn't kill her, why the hell did you and your mother move the body?" Lord Grantham bellowed.

Lady Edith burst into tears, yet again, and flung herself face first onto the couch.

Carson ran a hand through his hair, shook his weary head, and whispered, "The groom's assistant."


	7. The Candlestick

In a day full of strange goings-on, perhaps the strangest, Thomas thought, came when Carson inexplicably excused Molesley and Andy from dinner service after the second course and announced that he alone would be handling the rest of the meal. They came down to stand in the kitchen looking defeated and report that he had dismissed them from their duties with the suggestion that they might do anything they saw fit to make themselves useful until it was time to clear. His only apparent admonition was that they were not to leave the house, an unappealing prospect anyway as a cold rain had begun falling in buckets outside the door.

"Is that even possible?" Daisy asked as she slid a tray of biscuits in the oven. "I mean during the war when he were so upset about having maids in the dining room, if he could have done it by himself wouldn't he have then?"

"It is just the family tonight," Molesley said, "and it's only four of them, so I suppose it is possible. It must be or we wouldn't be down here."

"It might just be possible – just," Thomas said, "but not to Carson's standards. There's something more you aren't telling us here. What was happening just before you were excused?"

"Nothing," Andy said. "It was a quiet dinner, uneventful."

Thomas wondered briefly, with an inward sneer, if it was more likely married life or being dragged into the Bates's legal drama that was driving the old man to certain madness.

"What were they talking about?" Thomas probed.

"Nothing unusual. Certainly nothing interesting," Andy frowned. "Lady Mary is interviewing nannies tomorrow, Lady Grantham's new hat, Mrs. Crawley's coming to dinner on Saturday, one of Lady Mary's men is coming to go riding next week, and then we were dismissed."

Thomas wondered how Mrs. Carson would react to these new liberal ideas of service her husband suddenly seemed to be displaying, but she was unavailable for prodding as she had been called to the nursery to help manage the children just prior to the announcement of this bold new scheme.

"Whatever Mr. Carson had in mind for you lot, I'm sure it didn't involve loitering about in my kitchen gossiping and getting in everyone's way," Mrs. Patmore said. "Now get on from here. All of you."

"Now, now, Mrs. Patmore," Thomas said. "We're not gossiping. We're just concerned about household standards."

"And who is everyone?" Andy asked. "Usually, we are everyone."

Mrs. Patmore opened her mouth as if to speak, but then just shook her head.

"Well, you might notice the rest of haven't been excused from our duties," Daisy snapped.

"Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Patmore," shouted the dervish that had just appeared in the kitchen.

"Good Lord, Arthur, you're soaking wet," Mrs. Patmore said.

Arthur looked at her quizzically and cocked his head.

"I know that," he said. "I've been outside. It's raining, you know."

"Yes, I know," Mrs. Patmore said, swallowing a laugh. "What on Earth were you doing outside? Oh, never mind. Lily, get the child some towels and heat up some milk."

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore."

As Lily ran around the table, not particularly looking where she was going, she came in contact with a thick puddle of water that had been steadily expanding outward from the boy. Arthur jumped nimbly out of the way as she went down. Reaching out to grab hold of the first thing her fingers came in contact with, she snatched Thomas's crutch from under his arm and took him screaming down with her.

"Bloody hell," Thomas shouted. "Again?"

Daisy shook her head. Lily quickly scrambled to her feet and ran blushing from the room. Thomas, on the other hand, could not immediately seem to find purchase on the wet floor and began to twist and scoot, like a turtle on its back, unable to right himself.

"Well, come on, get him off my floor," Mrs. Patmore sighed, waving a spoon at Molesley and Andy.

Without a word, Andy and Molesley glanced to each other, picked Thomas up by the arms and dragged him towards the servant's hall, with Mrs. Patmore leading the way. Arthur trailed behind sheepishly carrying the crutches and spreading water down the hall.

Once in the hall, Thomas found himself being dropped into an armchair by the fireplace, across from the one in which Phyllis was sat doing some type of needlework. Arthur glanced nervously around and then reached between the chair and the fireplace to pass the crutches to Molesley. Somehow, in that process one of the crutches swept across the mantlepiece knocking off a handful of assorted household items, including a sturdy candle holder, which came crashing down onto Thomas's head.

Thomas, who by this point felt thoroughly under attack, screamed and attempted to fold himself into the smallest of possible targets. Molesley immediately began offering apologies and flouncing about like a landed fish. The boy released a high-pitched wail and looked wild-eyed from one adult face to another, before bolting from the room, arms and legs akimbo.

"Oh, whatever else?" Thomas said around his hands as he held the sides of his head.

"Oh my, that is going to leave a mark," Mrs. Patmore said. "Miss Baxter, I think you better come with me and fetch Mr. Barrow here a headache powder and perhaps some tea. Would you like a cup of tea, Thomas?"

Thomas gave his head a single shake and then gripped it more tightly between his hands.

"Careful there, Thomas," Bates's voice came from the hallway. "We can't have you going wobbly at both ends."

Thomas rubbed the tender lump that was already coming out on his head and looked up to see the man smirking at him from the doorway. He found he was less irritated by what Bates said than by the fact that, given his current state of injury, he felt incapable of forming an adequate response.

"Oh, Mr. Bates, good," Mrs. Carson called to him as her heels clipped down the staircase. "You're back. Were you able to see Anna?"

"No, actually. Mrs. Carson, I wondered if you might have a few minutes," Bates said, before the two of them disappeared down the hall into Mrs. Carson's sitting room.

"Why do we even still have all these around? It's not like the Abbey isn't fully electrified," Andy said, as he reached to place the heavy candlestick back on the mantle. Thomas just glared at him.

Phyllis returned shortly to thrust a powder and a glass of water into Thomas's hands.

"Be glad to see my bed at the end of this day," Thomas said looking up at her.

Phyllis just smiled.

* * *

"Mr. Bates was in earlier," Mrs. Carson said. "He wasn't able to see Anna today, but he thinks he may have better luck in the morning."

The servants had gathered around the table and were awaiting service of their evening meal.

"Where is he now?" Carson asked.

"I sent him back to the cottage. One of the kitchen girls packed him a basket," Mrs. Carson said. "He looked exhausted, and he has another long day ahead of him tomorrow. He said he has to be back here tomorrow afternoon to meet with Mr. Murray."

"None of this makes sense," Daisy said as she entered the room carrying a tureen of stew. "What sort of investigation has there even been before they just arrested Anna? Do they even know how the nanny died?"

Thomas wondered just what kind of books Daisy had moved on to reading this week. He thought of asking her, but before he could open his mouth Mrs. Patmore's beckoning voice sent Daisy scurrying from the room, so he decided on another tack.

"Perhaps we should put Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter on the case," Thomas said. "Those two seemed to develop something of a penchant for investigation the last time a Bates was up for murder."

Mrs. Carson eyed Thomas suspiciously.

"Well, of course, I would be happy to help in any way I could," Molesley stuttered out far too quickly.

Phyllis opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it quickly as her words were swallowed up by the enormous grin that burst forth on her face just before she glanced shyly to her lap.

Oh good Lord. She's even more besotted than Carson, Thomas thought.

"Mr. Molesley," Carson began slowly. "I believe there is something you can do to help. I would like you to look after dressing his lordship, just for this evening and perhaps tomorrow, mind."

A stunned silence fell over the room. Thomas dropped his spoon and looked in shock to the head of the table. Carson was actively avoiding eye contact with anyone. He was focused exclusively on his meal, shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth with what appeared to be a heretofore unknown level of determination to reach the bottom of the bowl, and perhaps dig through to the table's surface. Mrs. Carson's face registered a range of expressions that rolled from mild surprise to intense concern to outright panic.

Molesley looked like he was torn between bounding onto the table to dance a jig and soiling himself. It briefly occurred to Thomas that the man might be capable of doing both at the same time.

"I...I would be happy to be of assistance, Mr. Carson," Molesley sputtered.

Phyllis gazed on Molesley and beamed with pride. Besotted.

"What? Oh, yes. Very good," Carson said between bites.

"Mr. Carson, are you cert..." Thomas began steadily, but he was quickly cut off by a pair of Carson scowls.

A glance around the table assured Thomas that he was not alone in his thoughts. To simply say this seemed like a bad idea would have grossly stretched the meaning of the word bad. In that moment, the idea seemed so bad that the potential for catastrophe might actually have been unprecedented. And then Andy presented an idea that was even worse.

"I can't see why his lordship can't get himself dressed for bed occasionally," Andy said.

Molesley looked aghast. A titter went up from the coven of housemaids at the end of the table. Carson's eyebrows danced about madly on his head. Mrs. Carson sputtered into her wine.

"For God's sake man, think what you're saying," Thomas snorted. "We can't have his lordship becoming too aware he is capable of buttoning up his own shirts. Next thing you know, the lot of them upstairs will realize they could just open their own doors or pass their own plates at dinner. Then where would any of us be?"

"Where, indeed?" muttered Carson. He seemed quite shaken by the thought.

Thomas took a deep breath. How bad could this be, really? Molesley was a trained valet after all. And whatever came of it could only reflect poorly on Carson, not him. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea after all. Decidedly odd day all around.

Phyllis continued to beam. Besotted.

Carson eyed Andy skeptically for a moment, and then turned to Mrs. Carson.

"Lady Mary will be interviewing applicants for the nursery tomorrow," Carson said. "She asked we offer her thanks to the maids for their additional efforts during this transition."

"Hopefully she will find someone shortly," Mrs. Carson said. "It would be nice to see things return to normal."

"Won't be normal 'til Anna's back," Daisy said, as she entered carrying the pudding. That's our Daisy, loyal to the end, Thomas thought.

"Anna killed someone right in this house. I should think there would be more concern about our safety than to just bring her back here."

Smirking, Thomas turned to face the gaggle of now silent housemaids, trying to discern which of them looked fearless enough to have offered such a remark for this particular audience. This one could be interesting.

"Molly," Mrs. Carson said. That resolved that question. "Mrs. Bates is an innocent woman, unjustly accused of a horrible crime. You would do well to remember that if you wish to remain in this house. And if you do not wish to remain in this house, I will be happy to take your immediate notice."

"If Anna is innocent," Molly started. Fearless or just foolhardy? Thomas wondered. "How did the police come to believe..."

Without warning, Carson slammed his palm down on the table, rattling the dishes and startling the maids. Pushing his chair back, he jumped to his feet and bellowed in a raging fury, "The groom's assistant!"


	8. Miss Scarlet on the Gallery

Carson didn't know if Grigg had actually sired this...miscreant, but he thought he might like to find him and ring his neck just owing to the possibility. This entire blackmail scheme seemed precisely like something right out of a classic Grigg scriptbook. But this Smythe character was clearly capable of depravities that went far beyond anything that had ever sprung from Charlie Grigg's fevered imaginings. Chances were good that he had murdered a woman, for what reason Carson could not say. It was almost certain that he had disturbed the poor woman's body, dumping her in a field nearly thirty miles away – after he had stripped her of her clothing. Carson didn't even want to begin to entertain the motivation behind that. Nor did he wish to be forced to air thoughts on these matters with anyone else. At least the family had managed to steer clear of the topic during dinner – although there had been that one flippant remark about the stables from Lady Mary, after which he had excused the footmen.

The absolute last person Carson wanted to talk to in the aftermath of the family's disclosures was his wife. He needed time to think, to put what he had learned into perspective. He certainly couldn't risk disclosing to anyone the knowledge of what those two daffy women above stairs had done. As much as justice demanded Anna's immediate release, it also would not be served by having Lady Edith take her place. The girl was many things – completely lacking in even a modicum of common sense perhaps chief among them – but Carson was certain that she was no murderer. He couldn't help but think that this whole affair might have been much less complicated if her own mother had only known this fact with the same certainty.

He felt that perhaps he was starting to have a better understanding of why his wife had failed to tell him about Green. There were just certain atrocities that one did not wish to give voice to. And certain relationships one did not wish to sully with such disclosures, disillusionment being a cruel offering of devotion. He was certain that in time Mrs. Carson would know all the odious details to which he had become privy, and probably more – secrets had a way of finding her all on their own. However she came to have this information though, he determined it would not be through him.

Never had he more needed to be alone and just think. It seemed everything around him was falling to madness. So, he had ensconced himself in the solitude of his pantry directly after dinner, even going so far as to send Molesley to see to his lordship. Just thinking about that decision made him question his own sanity, but it had to be done. He spent his evening burying himself in ledgers and invoices and orders – things that were stable and familiar. He knew she would come to him eventually.

"Mr. Bates is beside himself with worry," she said from her position leaned against the doorframe.

"Naturally." It was all he could think to say.

"There's more to it this time," she said, taking a tentative step into the room.

"How so?"

"Anna's with child." And then he looked up from his ledger and at his wife, really looked at her. She looked so very tired, he thought. "They were planning to wait a few more weeks before telling anyone."

"So no one knows?"

"He thinks Lady Mary may suspect, but they've told no one."

It was late. Very late. The house was quiet, so very quiet. Still. Serene. The only sounds were the rain washing softly across the windowpanes and the far-off hum of the electrical refrigerator – the one Mrs. Patmore had fought so hard to keep out of her kitchen back when things like that still seemed to matter.

"It's late, Mrs. Carson. You need your rest."

"As do you."

"I'm just going to finish here. I'll be up in a few minutes."

She watched him curiously.

"Mr. Cason, you would tell me if something else were troubling you, I'd hope."

He thought to tell her that he was fine, that nothing was bothering him, but he knew she would see through the charade immediately.

"It has been a long day, Mrs. Carson," he said, giving her a weak smile.

"That it has."

"Go on up. I'll lock up and follow you shortly." He waited more than an hour to ensure that she would be asleep, before climbing the stairs and falling into a dreamless slumber above the blankets.

He was awake with a start just over three hours later. He watched her as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He wasn't sure she was actually asleep. He thought perhaps he had seen her eyes blink shut as he opened his own, perhaps it seemed she was working to regulate her breathing. He felt a pang of guilt that his remoteness would cause her concern. It seemed rather unlike her to stand back in this way, to let him work things through for himself. Rather unlike her, indeed. Lord knows she was always pushing and prodding, wheedling her way past his thick defenses, dark silences, and harsh words, constantly in search of any opportunity to force him to lay his private self bare – to help, always to help.

But haven't we all been just a little unlike ourselves of late? he asked himself.

He strained his eyes in the half-moonlight to watch her lying there, pretending to sleep for his benefit. Gods he loved her. Even a year ago he couldn't have imagined allowing that thought to fully form. Now that thought colored every action he took. And she loved him. He smiled at the memory. Was it just yesterday they were stood together in her sitting room and she stole his breath with those words? His wife.

He felt tears begin to prick behind his eyes as his thoughts joltingly turned to Anna. And Bates. And now a child. The coming of a child should be a joyous event, but it seemed just one more source of worry now. Oh, the indignities to which that girl had been subjected. And now this – again. How long were they to suffer? He wondered. He felt sure they must ponder this question as well. Was this to be their entire lives: the pair of them, collectively, a modern-era Sisyphus compelled to forever push the boulder of ridicule and false accusation up that bloody hill?

* * *

He avoided breakfast, finding he had no appetite for either food or trivial conversation. He stationed Andrew in the entrance hall to usher the nanny applicants in to Lady Mary as they arrived, and then spent his morning roaming the halls, conducting sham inspections of rooms and furnishings he knew to be flawlessly presented.

Somewhere near mid-morning, he happened upon Lady Edith. She was standing alone on the gallery staring out over the main hall. She was so quiet. Still. Almost serene. He silently took up a position next to her, hands clasped behind his back, and followed her gaze to the floor below.

"Can I be of assistance, m'lady?" he asked quietly after several moments.

"Perhaps you should be more fearful of me, Carson. Mary seems to think I'm likely to begin killing off the servants at any moment now."

"I don't believe she thinks that."

"Well, she certainly doesn't think very highly of me, does she?"

"I am very fond of Lady Mary, but we are not always of one mind."

"You surprise me, Carson."

"M'lady," he sighed, "Of late, I find I surprise even myself."

They stood silently side-by-side for several moments, lost in their own thoughts.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" he asked cautiously, turning just slightly to watch her from the corner of his eye. He saw her face begin to crumple and reached to hand her his handkerchief. But she stopped him, placing her hand on his and pushing it gently back to his chest with a ragged sigh.

"Not today, Carson. I won't be needing that today. Not again."

She sighed and turned to look back out over the hall.

"Do you know you're the first person who has even asked?"

"I wish I could say I was surprised."

She gave him a weary smile and then turned away before she continued speaking.

"I didn't kill her."

"I didn't think you did."

"I found her there, on the nursery floor, during dinner. I had stayed upstairs with a headache. I wanted to see Marigold, but she wasn't there and the nanny was on the floor. She was so still. There were terrible bruises on her face and arms, and her dress was torn. All I could think was she was dead. And I couldn't find the children. Nanny was dead and the children were gone."

"But the children were safe."

"Yes, but I didn't know. I was running around upstairs, from room to room, flinging doors open in a panic. At some point I started crying. I'm afraid I became quite hysterical. I've never understood how no one heard me. And then there they were, just sitting on Mary's bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. George told me they were playing a game with Nanny. He asked if I would like to play too. He said all we had to do to win the game was sit in Mary's room and be really quiet until Nanny came for us, then we would get extra biscuits."

"I see," Carson said. But he wasn't sure he really did see.

"I just left them there, in Mary's room. I couldn't take them back to the nursery where Nanny was dead. I told them to keep playing, and I went back – to the nursery. But when I got there, I didn't know what to do. Mama came in a few minutes later and found me, leaning over the nanny's body, hair a mess, still sobbing rather hysterically. Somehow I had torn my skirt; I'm not even sure when that happened. She was so panicked and insistent, and I don't know what got into me really. All I knew was that we had to get the body out of the nursery and far away from the children. I thought somehow that getting rid of the body would make the whole thing just go away – that we could get up in the morning and it would be like it never happened. I didn't even realize until I was driving back home that Mama thought I had killed the woman."

"So, the two of you managed this on your own?"

"Just. Nanny Jenkins wasn't a particularly large woman, but it was still a bit of a struggle. There was a good deal more dragging than carrying, I would say. Mama went and found some rope and we used it to pull her a bit. That was a help."

Carson suddenly realized that this could well be the single most bizarre conversation of his life.

"At first when I heard that Harold had accused Anna, I thought he believed that I had killed her, that he did it to protect me. I wanted to go to the police and see Anna freed, but Mama was so certain I would hang. She still is, really. She keeps assuring me that the police will see their error on their own any moment and Anna will be released. And then there is Marigold to think about," she trailed off, glancing to him nervously.

"I admit my thinking on all this has been quite muddled," she finally continued. "It wasn't until after Harold made blackmail demands that I realized that his actions were most likely more of self-preservation than any concern for my welfare."

"You say you were in love with this man?"

"No, of course not," she laughed.

"But what of..."

"I said I thought he loved me. I never had any thoughts of being in love with him."

"I don't understand."

"He was kind to me. Of course, I never guessed at his motives. All I knew was that he was kind to me."

"Alright," he said, willing her to continue.

"I foolishly imagined that he cared for me, but I wasn't looking for a lover. Goodness, I knew he was..." She stopped and closed her eyes as if searching for just the right words.

"Below your station?" he asked.

"No, that's not it," she shook her head sadly. "That's more Mary's area of interest. Those things don't matter much to me. I'm not sure they ever did."

"Well, what then?"

"We just weren't suited. He was...coarse, I suppose you might say."

Coarse, indeed, Carson thought. And beyond, apparently.

"As I say, I wasn't looking for someone to be in love with. I suppose I thought he could be something of a champion for me."

"A champion? I don't understand what you mean."

"Oh, Carson," she said looking at him pointedly, "If you think on it, I believe you will find that you understand exactly what I mean."

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"M'lady, if I may suggest, you have far more support than I believe you credit."

"Perhaps," she said, voice laden with doubt.

"Her ladyship helped you move a woman's body, apparently without question. It would appear to me that might indicate a fair measure of support."

"Only because she assumed that I had killed the poor woman."

"That was an unfortunate assumption," Carson said, "but some might think the assumption makes her support all the more remarkable."

* * *

He took his place at luncheon largely because he thought that while he could possibly have avoided further conversation for the rest of the day, he could no longer avoid sustenance. Awaiting his meal, he sat with his eyes half-closed, resting his head on the back of chair, hoping this posture would be sufficient to dissuade uninvited chatter. He could see her from the corner of his eye, perched on her seat next to him, anxiously scrutinizing his features and gnawing on that lip. After a few moments, he silently reached to cover her hand where it sat on the table and give it a brief squeeze. She seemed to relax a bit then and a sad fleeting smile danced across her face.

"Oh, Mr. Bates," she said looking up to where the man was leaned in the doorway. "Were you able to see her? How was she?"

"Not as well as I might have liked."

He listened to their words as they volleyed over his head. He listened to the words, but suddenly found himself incapable of discerning their discrete meanings. What he heard was the two of them forced to speak in trivial tones, discussing outrages as if they were inanities. His mind filled with roiling images of Anna and Green and Nanny Jenkins and Lady Edith and Smythe. And the children. He thought of Anna, imprisoned – cold and alone as he imagined her – and awaiting a child. He looked up at Bates and wondered how he was still standing, so calmly discussing his imprisoned wife and child like he might chat about the weather.

"Mr. Bates," Carson began calmly, as he stood. "When Anna is released – and she will be released if I have to go to York and remove her from that cell myself." Carson paused and took a steadying breath. His words were coming faster and louder now. "When she is released, Mr. Bates, I want you to take your wife and get as far away from this house as you possibly can. Open an inn, run a shop, take up a trade, whatever you have to do. It has become clear to me that no matter how well-intentioned we all may have been, we have failed miserably to protect that girl, and, in fact, have repeatedly put her in harm's way."

Carson fell back in his chair and looked to the floor, breathing deeply to try and confine his raging emotions. After a few moments he became aware that the room had fallen into a heavy silence. Glancing up, he found a room nearly full of people, his subordinates, openly gawping in his direction. Nearly everyone in the room was studying him intently, as if trying to refine their assessments of his character based on this new and shocking set of behaviors he had just demonstrated. Everyone, that is, save two individuals: Mrs. Carson, seated just to his right, was maintaining eye contact with Mr. Bates, who remained leaning resignedly in the doorway.

Without a further glance towards anyone, Carson rose slowly from his chair and headed towards the hall. As he reached the doorway, Mr. Bates stood aside to let him pass, but Carson came to hover next to him at a standstill.

"Whatever you need. Any help I can offer. Any references I can provide, any amount of money I can get my hands on, it is yours, if that is what it takes to make that girl safe," Carson said in a voice just loud enough to be heard. Then, without waiting for a response, he walked directly into his pantry, and slammed the door.

He stood there for several moments, leaned against his desk in the one place in the house that was his alone, the seat of all the authority he had been granted, and tried to tease apart the Gordian knot of successes and failures that had become his life. He was vaguely aware of an extraordinary level of chatter drifting through the halls. He considered that it might be the case that he had just made himself quite the subject of gossip, and found that, for once, he simply did not care.

"Mr. Carson, are you..." She began speaking even before she had fully opened the door.

"Not now, Mrs. Hughes. I cannot argue with you about this now," Carson said giving her a vague wave of his hand.

She stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her, walking cautiously in his direction.

"Mr. Carson, I'm not here to..."

"Not now I said. We can discuss this later, but I am..."

"Charles," she nearly shouted. Hearing his name spoken aloud by her, and for the first time in decades, jolted him in a way he could not have anticipated.

"Please," she said quietly, "just be still for a moment."

And then, before he could say another word, before he could do anything to make a mess of it all, Elsie closed the distance between them, put one hand on either side of his face, and kissed her husband. Firmly. On the lips.

She pulled away just as his shock was beginning to wear off, just as he was really beginning to respond. He chased her lips with his own, but had to settle for resting his forehead against hers as he attempted to regulate his breathing.

"What was that for?" he asked inanely when his voice returned to him. He immediately wished he hadn't said it, thought perhaps this would have been the perfect moment to have declared his love once again. But, as usual where this woman was concerned, the movement of his thoughts trailed those of his mouth by several crucial seconds. And thankfully, as usual, Elsie didn't seem to mind.

"I shouldn't think that a wife needs an excuse to kiss her husband, does she?" Elsie asked with a mischievous smirk.

"No, of course not. Any time at all. You know where to find me." He closed his eyes briefly and sent up a small prayer of thanks as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Any time?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and pulling back to look him in the eye.

"Any time at all," he said, leaning in to capture her lips.

If Daisy was surprised to find the pair of them embracing in such a manner when she walked in a few moments later, she did an uncharacteristically good job of hiding it.

"Mr. Carson, the groom is here to see you," she began, all business. Perhaps her studies were actually helping her to finally mature, if nothing else, Carson thought. "Says he needs to know what to do with this stuff what belonged to Harold Smythe."

"Who?" Elsie asked with a grin, as she leaned in to rest her head against her husband's chest.

"Elsie, love, I can't do this anymore," Carson sighed. "It's become meaningless."*

* * *

* _Semantic satiation is a psychological phenomenon in which repetition causes a word or phrase to become temporarily meaningless to the listener._


	9. The Wrench

_And, we're back. Just think of it as an intermission._

* * *

Thomas awoke with the certain knowledge that imminent doom awaited him should he dare to venture below stairs. A splitting headache accompanied by a rather large goose egg, as well as an assortment of other bumps, bruises, and muscle strains caused by the relentless attacks fate had conspired to wreak against his body the day prior, all clearly served to herald looming catastrophe. So when Andy stopped in to help him down to breakfast, Thomas waved him off with a, "Not this morning, mate. Thanks." And when Lily brought him a tray and repeated Mrs. Patmore's message that, "No one is going to lay about and starve in his room as long as I'm running this kitchen," Thomas divulged tentative plans to remain secluded in his room for the next few weeks while his foot healed.

Lily rolled her eyes. "If that's your thought, I 'spect Mrs. Patmore might rethink lettin' you starve," she said before pulling his door shut.

But it wasn't until Phyllis stopped in to check on him on her way to relieve one of the housemaids in the nursery that he knew he was beaten.

"What's wrong?" she asked, painting on her best sympathetic smile.

Oh, good Lord. Why did I open the door? Thomas thought as he rolled his eyes. This one never lets anything go. Always chasing around corners after someone to poke and prod. Always imagining someone needs her help with something, anything, everything.

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong."

"Then why haven't you come down? There must be something."

And then he was done. He had survived a lifetime of ridicule, a sound and thorough beating by a gang of ruffians, and the searing – and all too public – humiliation of that debacle with Jimmy. For God's sake, he had survived the trenches. He could surely survive whatever gauntlet of minor horrors the Abbey had in store for him on any given day.

"I just had a touch of a headache earlier."

"And it's better now?"

"Yes, yes. I'll be down shortly," he added with a huff. Phyllis just smiled.

Thomas made his way downstairs just in time to witness the latest evidence of Carson's apparent descent into madness. Perched on the second step, he experienced a brief moment of gratitude for Phyllis's nosy interventions as he watched a wincing Bates awkwardly leaned in the servant's hall doorway while Carson all but screamed at him to take Anna and leave the house as soon as she was released.

"We have failed miserably to protect that girl and, in fact, have repeatedly put her in harm's way," Carson said. Thomas was baffled. Surely the girl had seen more than her share of ill luck over the years, but Thomas couldn't imagine just how leaving the house was supposed to protect her. If anything, it seemed that most of Anna's problems were caused by her association with Bates, and now Carson was practically insisting on seeing the two of them off together with the suggestion that it would somehow keep her safe. It simply made no sense. All the same, Thomas thought he should be glad to see the back of Bates whatever the circumstances.

Carson mumbled a few additional words offering Bates assistance in taking flight with his wife, and then stomped off to his pantry, slamming the door behind him. Thomas had the distinct feeling he had missed something fairly significant during his self-imposed confinement.

There was a moment of shocked silence while Bates remained standing listlessly in the doorway, leaned on his cane and deep in thought, as if trying to puzzle out his next move. Thomas pushed past him to enter the hall just as a burst of indistinct chatter flew up from the clutch of housemaids and footmen, and was carried out to bounce and echo across the walls below stairs.

Taking a seat next to Andy, who appeared momentarily engaged in conversation with the gaggle at the end of the table, Thomas looked across to see Mrs. Carson starring past him and through Bates. He would have expected her to put an immediate and firm stop to the prattling, but her glassy expression indicated that she wasn't even aware of it. A grin spread slowly across her face and her cheeks began to pink, before she suddenly leapt from her chair and fairly bolted from the room. Thomas leaned around to follow her with his eyes. She gave Bates's arm a quick squeeze as she passed him and then walked determinedly toward the butler's pantry.

"What has been happening down here while I was in my room?" Thomas leaned in to ask Andy as Daisy entered the room to begin serving luncheon.

"I just got here. I've been upstairs all morning myself," Andy whispered with a shrug. "All I know is Mr. Bates just came in and was telling Mrs. Carson about his visit to Anna. Then Mr. Carson started shouting and told him that when she is released he's to take her away from the Abbey to somewhere else."

"I heard that part," Thomas said. He wondered just what he hadn't heard that could have precipitated all of this.

As Thomas was pondering this question, he noticed that Daisy had come to stand behind two of noisier housemaids. The hens were clucking and cackling indiscernibly between each other as Daisy paled and began to quiver.

"Molly," Daisy snapped. "You lot need to be quiet and eat your food. Or do we feed you so often you think you can afford to miss a meal to spread gossip and lies?"

Thomas felt his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut-off by Mrs. Patmore's voice carried in from the kitchens.

"Daisy," Mrs. Patmore called lowly and without a hint of her usual frustration. "Come on girl, these chickens aren't going to dress themselves."

Daisy exhaled loudly and managed to glare at each person around the table individually before skulking out of the room. A tense quiet settled over the hall as attention focused on fulfilling an unspoken accord to a hasty swallow and retreat.

"Mr. Bates," Thomas began without looking up from his stew, "are you going to come in and join us for luncheon or are you going to continue to haunt the doorway?"

Much to Thomas's surprise, Bates entered the room and dropped into a chair across from him, leaving an empty seat between himself and Molly. After a brief moment's deliberation, Thomas pushed an empty bowl in his direction and Bates began to silently ladle himself some stew.

Thomas surveyed the table, before turning to Andy. "And what was happening upstairs this morning?" Thomas asked. Before Andy could answer, there was a loud knock at the backdoor. Thomas heard someone – probably one of the kitchen maids, he thought – scramble out of the kitchen to open the door and then exchange several indistinct words with the visitor.

"I'll get Mr. Carson," Daisy called as the sounds of an approaching army seemed to pour down the hallway towards the servants' hall.

"Alright boys, put it right in here," a rough brogue called out from the corridor.

Four burly laborers then struggled into the hall with a large case and unceremoniously dropped it on the table directly in front of Mr. Carson's empty chair, shaking the table and rattling the dishes.

"What is all this?" Thomas asked the workmen's backs as they turned and walked back out of the room. Thomas reached for his crutches and struggled to his feet, following them into the hallway only to discover a stream of additional workers carrying boxes and crates toward him from the open back door.

"You can't put that stuff here," Thomas shouted, moving to stand directly in front of a short, stocky man who had placed himself at the entrance to the servants' hall and was clearly directing this operation. "What is all of this?"

"Oh, aye?" the man asked raising his eyebrows. "And who might you be?"

"Mr. Barrow, under-butler," Thomas said pulling himself to the fullest height the crutches would allow. "Now, I ask you again, what is all of this?"

"Oh, aye. Tim Maloney, Mr. Barrow, pleasure to make your acquaintance," the man said with a broad smile as he roughly grabbed Thomas's hand off of a crutch to give it a shake. Thomas wrestled his hand free of the grip, wondering briefly if this man Maloney thought he had been invited for tea.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas watched as Andy walked to the end of the table and threw open the mysterious case. An odd expression settled on Andy's face as he observed the contents, something between horrified shock and perplexed confusion.

"Close that," Thomas snapped, as he hobbled back toward the table. "Mr. Maloney, what is all of this and why are you bringing it here?"

Andy did not close the case, but simply stood staring as if mystified. Maloney did not answer, but simply continued to direct the ever growing line of workmen bringing additional luggage, boxes, and crates. They had reached the entrance to the servants' hall and, discovering something of a bottle neck blocking their path into the room, had proceeded to begin stacking their cargo along the wall in the corridor instead.

Thomas reached Andy's side and looked down into the open case. He too was somewhat taken aback upon discovering its bizarre contents. He and Andy exchanged glances. The entire case appeared to be filled with spanners of varying sizes and types. No wonder it's so bloody heavy, Thomas thought.

Thomas looked to Bates whose own curiosity had motivated him to move to the end of the table and stare into the open container as well. Noting that Bates looked as confused as he felt, Thomas decided it was time to take control over at least some part of this situation.

"You lot," Thomas called out to the maids, "lunch is over. Don't you have something you should be dusting somewhere?" There was a scraping of chairs and scurrying of feet as the women fled the room, tripping past the workmen to make their escape.

As if unable to stop himself, Andy chose this moment to reach into the case, take a particularly large spanner in hand, and toss it into the air. Thomas briefly envisioned the heavy tool landing on his good foot as it spun end over end. He reached out and snatched it from above Andy's head, thrust it back into the case, and slammed the lid closed.

"Now then, Mr. Maloney," Thomas began while still glaring at Andy. "I do not know what this is about..."

"What is all this?" Carson came blustering down the hall with Mrs. Carson trailing behind him. "Mr. Maloney, what is the meaning of bringing all of this," Carson paused and swung his hands wide out as if searching for a word to accurately describe the growing piles of detritus lining the hallway, "this, well, this here?"

"Oh, aye, Mr. Carson. Always a pleasure," Maloney stuck his hand out in greeting to be met only by Carson's stony glare.

"Stop," Carson shouted, turning to throw his hands up at the river of workers still flowing through the back door and down the hallway. "Return all of these boxes and … all of this to the lorry or whatever you have brought it here in."

The workmen froze. They looked from Carson to Maloney and back again. Carson waved his hands, implying that they were to turn and go, while Maloney gave one firm shake of his head. The workers, unable to decide in that moment whose wrath they more feared, chose an alternate option of dropping their boxes where they stood and racing back out of doors.

Having been abandoned by his small army of workers, Maloney suddenly seemed far less assured. His shoulders sagged a bit and he licked his lips, nervously glancing around the halls and avoiding eye contact with anyone.

"Ah, well," Maloney began again nervously, "this here is stuff what belonged to Harold Smythe, my former assistant, and as I have heard naught from him since he disappeared like a thief in the night nearly a week ago, I've brought it here for you to dispose of as you see fit."

"All of this belongs to a groom's assistant?" Thomas asked incredulously while moving into the hall to eye the piles of chests and boxes.

"Aye, it does. It did," Maloney said.

"How large was his room?" Andy asked. Everyone turned to glare at Andy.

Carson pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

"Andrew, shouldn't you be upstairs at the front door," Carson asked.

"Mr. Molesley is …" Andy began, but then catching sight of Carson's expression decided to change tack. "I will just go upstairs and see if Mr. Molesley needs any assistance." Andy fairly sprinted up the stairs.

"Regardless," Carson said turning back to the groom, "Mr. Smythe fell under your purview, Mr. Maloney, not mine. This is not an issue for the house staff to take up. If you want to know what to do with his things, I would suggest you raise the issue with the police."

"Oh, no. I've had all I can take of those two fools," Maloney said, finding a new source of bravado. We can hardly blame him for that, Thomas thought. "They've been bumbling around my stable for days asking all the same nonsense questions about Smythe over and over, but never getting to the point."

"If the police have been out to the stables investigating Mr. Smythe, why did you not turn his things over to them then?" Carson asked.

"They never asked," Maloney said. "And I'd no idea how much there was. Soon after he first come to work in the stables, Smythe asked me if he could store some of his things up in one of the unused lofts. Of course, I said it would be no problem. I never thought another thing of it. I'd no idea how much stuff he had up there until I checked yesterday."

"If these things have sat out of the way in an unused loft for..." Carson was just beginning to yell, when Mrs. Carson quieted him with a calming hand on his arm.

"Mr. Maloney, may I ask," Mrs. Carson began, "how long has Mr. Smythe been in the estate's employ?"

"Oh, I believe he came around about January of last year. So, what, fifteen or sixteen months?"

"Do you know anything of his background before he came to Downton, Mr. Maloney?"

"No, Mrs. Hughes, I can't say..."

"Carson," Carson said. Oh, good Lord, this again.

Maloney looked back and forth between Mr. and Mrs. Carson before recognition dawned across his features.

"Quite right. I forgot for a moment," Maloney said, broadening his smile. "But, as I was saying, Mrs. Carson," the particular stress he placed on her new name earned him a deferential nod from Carson, "I really know nothing about the man before he came to our employ."

"Did he not have references?" she asked. "Or perhaps any family we could contact about his things?"

"No, no. Mucking in the stables is not like working in the house," Maloney said with a slight laugh. "We don't collect references and conduct interviews. A man shows up, he's willing to work, and we give him a try. If he sticks to his tasks and carries his weight, he stays. If not, he goes. It's as simple as that."

"Well, be that as it may," Carson pronounced, "this is not a warehouse and we will not..."

"Mr. Carson," Mrs. Carson said quietly, reaching out to lay her hand on his arm once again. "We wanted to know who the man was. I daresay the answers may be somewhere in these boxes."

Carson stopped and gazed down on his wife. A soppy grin spread across his face and Thomas actually thought he heard the man sigh. Audibly sigh. Oh, good Lord.

"Put it in my pantry," Carson said.

* * *

It had stopped raining sometime in the night, but a murky sky hung low, heavy, and wet. Even now, after mid-day, the sun had not yet burned through the gloom to make a strong appearance, and the stones in the courtyard floor were coated damp and slick. Thomas felt his crutches slip perilously several times as he made his way across the surface, but he managed to keep himself upright. He settled on a crate in the middle of the yard, lit a cigarette, and pulled his jacket tighter around him. He realized that this was the first time he had ventured outside in nearly a week, since he was injured. Even given the nasty weather, it was nice to be out of the house.

It had been nearly an hour since Maloney and his team of minions had climbed back into their newly emptied lorry and cleared out. Immediately afterwards, Carson, Mrs. Carson, and Bates had ensconced themselves in the butler's pantry, presumably with the plan of finding some evidence in that odd mountain of materials that might help free Anna. Thomas thought the plan rather thin, but didn't really begrudge them the notion. Obviously, Anna hadn't killed the nanny or anyone else. The girl was clearly incapable of murder, perhaps the least capable of murder of anyone on the estate. Save Daisy, of course.

Bates, on the other hand. Well, Thomas wasn't so sure just what he might be capable of. He wondered briefly if Bates might have had more contact with Nanny Jenkins than any of them were aware of. Perhaps he had met her upstairs while passing to attend to his lordship. Perhaps they struck up a friendly acquaintance that suddenly turned not-so-friendly. Thomas shook his head. Of course, this man Smythe was the most obvious suspect. Whatever Thomas's issues with Bates, it seemed unlikely that the man had suddenly taken to killing off random members of the household staff.

"Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Carson called from the doorway, "might we see you in Mr. Carson's pantry for a moment?"

Oh, what now? Thomas wondered.

"Certainly, Mrs. Carson. I'll be right there."

Thomas's initial effort to enter Carson's pantry was thwarted by the overwhelming labyrinth of crates and boxes now filling the space. They were stacked, floor to ceiling, across the front of the silver cabinet and out to fill most of the room. There were boxes behind Carson's desk, and stacked in front of the window panes. Stacked cases prevented entry through the door closest to the kitchens. There was barely enough space left for the three current occupants of the room, who for some unknown reason were apparently awaiting Thomas joining them.

"You wanted to see me?" Thomas asked bemusedly from the doorway.

Carson was standing behind his desk looking down into a crate that was set in his chair. Bates was seated in one of the armchairs (the other being full of boxes), and digging through a small box that was in his lap. Mrs. Carson was stood in what appeared to be the only clear space in the room. Seeing Thomas's quandary, she quickly stepped onto a chest and scrambled to seat herself on the edge of Carson's desk. Carson raised his eyebrows in apparent distress at this action, but said nothing.

"Yes please, Mr. Barrow, come in and shut the door," Mrs. Carson said from her newly-discovered throne.

Thomas and his crutches squeezed awkwardly into the space. He glanced from one face to another awaiting some explanation for this unusual summons as a palpable silence stretched out around the room to bounce and echo along the stacks of crates and boxes. Bates and Mrs. Carson glanced back and forth at each other, as if each was willing the other to speak.

"Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Carson began slowly after what seemed an age, "as you know, we have a number of questions about Mr. Smythe, questions we are hoping to find answers to in his belongings."

"Yes," Thomas said slowly. He could not imagine where she was going with this.

"Answers which we hope will free Anna and put an end to this once and for all."

"Alright?"

Mrs. Carson looked around the room as if searching for assistance. Finding none, she sat a bit taller and plowed forward.

"Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Carson said in clipped tones, "we were hoping that you might be willing to assist us in searching through these boxes."

Thomas stared at her in stunned silence.

"As you can see, there is an awful lot of material here," she continued, "and we three have our regular duties to attend to, and a fair sight more right now. But, with your injury you have a good deal of free time on your hands right now, so it occurred to us..."

At this point, Carson heaved a great sigh. It was clear whose idea this was. And whose idea this was not, Thomas thought. But something compelled him to ask.

"Whose idea was this?"

"It was my idea," Bates said looking at Thomas with a steady, almost challenging gaze. Perhaps no answer could have shocked him more. Well, Carson of course. In his shock, Thomas could think of only one word.

"Why?"

"Mr. Bates thinks you have a special talent, a gift even, for ferreting out deeply-held secrets," Carson said with a certain level of sarcasm.

Mrs. Carson turned to glance piercingly at her husband and rolled her eyes in aggravation.

"I do not believe that is precisely what was said," she stated, turning back to Thomas. "Mr. Bates simply believes that you have certain … investigatory skills and keen insights that might be particularly helpful in this circumstance."

Thomas took a moment to consider what an admirable job she was doing in attempting to play him.

"And just what has given Mr. Bates this sudden opinion regarding my, what did you say, skills and insights?" Thomas asked, smirking at Bates.

"Anna and I were at Lord Sinderby's hunting party as well," Bates said pointedly.

"What you're suggesting here is not quite the same as merely taking heed when a boozy, self-aggrandizing butler casts his aspersions," Thomas said. Carson's eyebrows took flight. Thomas looked at him defiantly, prepared to deliver an epic description of just why the Sinderby butler deserved whatever scorn could be mustered.

"Come now, Mr. Barrow, I suspect you did a bit more than merely take heed," Bates said. "Regardless, much to all of our surprise, we are asking – I am asking – for your help."

Thomas tried to quickly evaluate the potential downside of this proposed arrangement. He could find none. If anything, he thought, cooperation could offer a boon. If the plan worked and Anna was freed, Bates might actually take Carson's advice and finally leave. And the family certainly wanted to see Anna freed; Phyllis and Molesley had done well in garnering the family's favor when they helped clear Bates in that last debacle.

"I'm sure his lordship would be very appreciative of any assistance you could offer," Bates said, as if reading his mind. Thomas eyed him suspiciously and continued mulling his options.

Of course, he didn't want to see the girl hanged either. And if they could embarrass those bumbling police officers in the process of clearing her, all the better. And, Thomas had to admit, he was more than a little curious about the odd happenings surrounding this whole affair himself.

"Mr. Barrow. Thomas," Mrs. Carson was speaking again. "If nothing else, Thomas, we all are on the same side here."

He glanced from Carson to Bates. The same side? Seemed rather unlikely no matter the circumstances. He wondered briefly if marriage might be driving Mrs. Carson mad in an entirely different way from Carson.

"Are we then?"

She raised an eyebrow and smiled at him sardonically.

"Yes, I believe we are," she said.

Thomas was suddenly struck with the notion that perhaps the whole lot of them – not just in this room, but in the whole house – had gone absolutely mad.

"Alright," he sighed.

"Alright?"

"Alright."


	10. Professor Plum in the Pantry

If Carson had been in need of further evidence to convince him that his life had descended completely into madness, he received it the instant his wife and Bates conspired to ask Barrow's assistance with, well, anything.

They were stood in his pantry, the three of them, hemmed in by enough of Smythe's material belongings to overfill a large freight carriage, when this crazed idea was first proposed. Carson was nursing an injured knee caused by the clumsiness of a pair of Maloney's delivery boys, as well as an aching head and a crabby temperament caused by his own folly in missing not one, but two meals.

What had initially seemed a simply glorious plan – to dig through Smythe's belongings and find answers to all their questions about Smythe's identity and, hopefully, the key fact that would lead to Anna's immediate release – had quickly deteriorated into nothing more or less than an overwhelming fiasco. There were boxes and crates everywhere, leaving barely enough room for any of them to move. And within moments, a thin layer of grime had been transferred from the crates to cover the three inhabitants of the room, as well as nearly every inch of surface from the servants' entrance, down the corridor, and into both the servants' hall and the pantry. Finally staring the sheer magnitude of the job before them in the face, Mrs. Carson had broached the fact that, given that she, Mr. Carson, and Mr. Bates had their regular duties to attend, just a perfunctory glance through Mr. Smythe's belongings could take days and yield few results.

"There is nothing to be done about it," Carson said. "It's not like there is anyone else available to help us. We are stretched thin as it is, and even if we weren't I doubt many of the servants would be suitably qualified to perform this particular task."

They sat silently for a moment, ruminating on the dilemma and their grimy discomfort.

"We could always ask Barrow," Bates laughed. They all laughed. "He has nothing to do these days."

It was a joke. Obviously. When he said it, it was a joke. But within an instant, Carson watched as some sort of corrupt energy passed between his wife and Bates; with a glance and a nod, the two of them somehow transformed the joke – it was a joke, wasn't it? – into an earnest intent. Carson, glancing back and forth from his wife to Bates, was certain that he was seeing the genesis of a great fall for all of them.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Well, he does have the available time right now," Mrs. Carson said.

"No. I mean it. No."

"Barrow could actually be a help in this particular circumstance," Bates said. "You must admit that he is particularly attuned to the idea of discovering people's secrets."

"I admit no such thing. No."

"Now, Mr. Carson, we must keep this in perspective. The important thing here is seeing Anna freed as soon as possible. Surely we can all put our personal feelings aside for Anna's sake," Mrs. Carson said.

"Our personal feelings about Mr. Barrow are deeply rooted and wholly legitimate. He is not to be trusted. No."

"What have we to lose?" Mrs. Carson asked. "What is the worst that could come of asking Mr. Barrow to help us?"

"He could say yes."

"And, how would that do any of us harm?"

"I don't know, and neither do you. We have no idea what information may be found here about the family, or any of us," Carson looked at his wife pointedly. "We cannot blindly trust Barrow with whatever we may happen across here. No."

Then his wife had uttered the three word enchantment that he feared she could now use to bring an immediate end to any dispute they might have today and into eternity.

"Trust me, dear."

Bates smirked knowingly, clearly aware that the wind had been knocked from Carson's sails.

Carson wasn't quite sure if it was the entreaty itself or the endearment that did him in, but he could only hope that his wife never came to understand the power she could wield over him with that particular phrase. He was certain, of course, that she knew immediately.

"Oh, very well," he huffed. "I can't fight this battle all day. But, I warn you, if he somehow uses any information found here to discredit or embarrass Downton or the family in any way..."

"I think Thomas might be more loyal than you like to credit, Mr. Carson," Elsie cut him off. Carson's brows shot up and he tucked his chin to eye her skeptically. Bates quietly snickered.

"No, really," she said, eyes wide with sincerity. "Don't get me wrong. Clearly, he is a trouble-maker of the first order. He is slippery and ambitious and scheming, and would stop at nothing to walk over anyone below stairs to get his way, but..."

"But?" Carson asked, his lips curling into an ironic smile.

"But he has his loyalties, even amongst the staff. And I don't believe he would ever betray the family outside the house," she said thoughtfully. "Whatever else we might say about him, he knows how to present a united front to the rest of the world. He has known as many of the family's secrets as anyone through the years, maybe more given his penchant for seeking them out. I've never known him to divulge any of them publicly."

"Well, he's none too fond of Mr. Bates," Carson said, nodding his head in Bates's direction. "I believe it was his meddling, in part, that brought suspicion on the Bates in the Green matter."

"As I said, he is ambitious. He's always disliked Mr. Bates because he believed he stood in his way, but I think you will find that, if pressed, he has nothing in particular against Anna and would rather not see her imprisoned."

"I agree," Bates said quietly. "Whatever his ill-will, it has always been directed towards me, never towards Anna except that she is my wife. Whatever his feelings towards me, and mine towards him, I can easily overlook them if there is a chance he might help to see Anna freed even a moment sooner."

At that, Carson sighed, knowing he was beaten once again, and gave his wife a vague wave of his hand to indicate his permission that she might go fetch the scoundrel.

"Mr. Carson," she said, pausing on her way out the door, "I believe first I will step into the kitchens and ask Mrs. Patmore to make you some tea and sandwiches. We wouldn't want you getting peevish on top of everything already going on." Carson rolled his eyes at her retreating back. Sandwiches would be welcome sustenance, but he expected they would do little to decrease his skepticism regarding Barrow.

An hour later, Mr. Bates had gone upstairs for his appointment with Murray, while Carson, Mrs. Carson, and Barrow were well into the process of going through Smythe's belongings. And though every moment spent in this situation was setting Carson's teeth on edge, he had to admit (silently to himself, never to another living soul – and especially not his wife) that Barrow had unexpectedly brought a new level of order and efficiency to the entire process.

It was Barrow who suggested that they begin by going through the largest boxes and trunks, and then have those that had been searched removed to an outside storage building to quickly make more room to negotiate within the cramped pantry. It was Barrow who had begun a catalog of their discoveries so as to more easily locate anything they might decide would be useful in the future. It was Barrow who, far more politely than Carson might have expected, had asked Lily to fetch some hall boys to clean up the mess of dust and grime coating the corridor and the servants' hall. And it was Barrow who, just as Bates had predicted, had displayed an almost uncanny ability to reach past the mundane and merely odd to pull out those items most likely to embarrass and incriminate. As per the norm, it was not so much what Barrow did that actually vexed Carson, but the flourishing, oily, disingenuous condescension with which he did it.

"What ho?" cried Barrow. "What ever have we here?"

They had already gone through a trunk filled with what appeared to be music hall costumes, a box of cookery items, two cases of women's clothing – mostly undergarments (some of which Mrs. Carson was certain appeared to have aged blood on them), a large crate of largely-broken empty wine bottles (cheap, nasty stuff), and a case full of old newspapers (which Barrow insisted they must revisit more thoroughly later to determine if any articles had been circled or clipped).

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the findings had thus far raised more questions than they had answered, but they had cleared additional space in the room so that the three could now comfortably pull chairs around the latest discovery – a trunk brimming with what appeared to be private papers, journals, ribbon-tied stacks of letters, and small personal knick-knacks. After hours of plowing through a virtual treasure trove of pure trash that had failed to illuminate much of anything, the discovery of this trunk had heralded the possibility of a light at the end of the tunnel.

And now Barrow was sat, eyes gleaming, lips pulled into a triumphant smirk, arm partially extended towards the sky, grasping a single yellowed page between his fingers. Without even seeing the front of the paper, Carson knew instinctively what it was.

"The Cheerful Charlies," Barrow sniggered, "starring Charlie Carson and Charlie Grigg. Well, well, well."

Carson frowned. The flyer with their names on it had only been printed for one venue. Where was? Manchester, perhaps? Liverpool? All other flyers had simply listed the name of the act. It was just his luck that this miscreant Smythe had somehow gotten ahold of the one that listed him by name. And now, thanks to the brilliant planning of his wife and Mr. Bates, Barrow had managed to uncover his secret as well.

"Cheerful Charlie," Barrow repeated. "I'd wager it's been a long time since anyone used that designation to describe you, eh Mr. Carson?"

Carson sputtered and felt his face begin to burn. He found himself in the unusual and discomfiting position of being without words to address the subject of his shame. Glancing up from beneath lidded eyes, he saw his wife sat with a tight-lipped grimace, wearing an expression somewhere between sympathetic horror and embarrassed mirth.

"Trust me, you said," he mumbled.

"And just what kind of act was this?" Barrow asked. "Did you sing? Or did you perhaps dance as well?"

"That's enough, Thomas," Mrs. Carson snapped as she reached up to snatch the paper out of his hand. "If you recall, we are searching for information about Mr. Smythe's life, not Mr. Carson's."

"Why did you never tell us of your secret talents, Mr. Carson?" Barrow continued unabated. "Perhaps you could give us a performance after tea. I'm certain it would do wonders for staff morale."

"Enough!" Mrs. Carson barked. Carson briefly considered that he had not heard her use quite that tone in many years, perhaps since before the war. It was enough to cause even Barrow to start and give a final anxious laugh.

"Now, let's get on with the task at hand," Mrs. Carson said, smoothing her hands over her skirts before bending to pick up another item from the trunk. "I'd like to think we could find some answers sooner rather than later."

A tense atmosphere clouded the room as both Mrs. Carson and Barrow returned to the examination of the items before them. After several moments of silent, yet vigorous self-absorption, Carson shifted nervously in his chair, cleared his throat and attempted to pull himself to his fullest seated height before reaching into trunk and pulling out a stack of what appeared to be four bound journals of varying dimensions.

Glancing through the first journal, he found its pages had been filled by what was clearly a feminine hand. His brow furrowed in confusion. These entries had clearly not been made by Smythe. A quick perusal of each of the journals told him more.

"These are not Smythe's journals," Carson said.

"Oh? Whose are they?" Mrs. Carson asked distractedly as she continued to study what appeared to be a stack of shipping invoices addressed to a resort hotel in Blackpool. Blackpool! That's where the flyer was printed with their names. Of course! That was also where Grigg had tried to fleece some tourists rolling dice and ended up instead losing not only all his own funds, but those he had stolen from Carson's suitcase as well. Carson had been mortified at having to climb through the window of their hotel room to retrieve his belongings, after the owner (quite reasonably) locked them out for non-payment. He tore his best slacks in the process.

"Well, whose are they?" Mrs. Carson asked again, pulling him from his memories.

"Oh, beg pardon," Carson said shaking his head. "I don't know. They seem to be the work of different women."

"Women? Are you suggesting that Mr. Smythe stole these?" Mrs. Carson asked.

"I'm not suggesting anything other than that he did not write them. As far as who did, we would have to read them more carefully in order to try and figure that out through references and context. We might never know."

"Aren't they inscribed in any way?" Mrs. Carson asked.

"Journals are generally intended to be viewed only by their owners in private quarters. I wouldn't imagine most people see the need in inscription," Carson said flipping through one of the books. "I suspect that at least this one belongs to a Lady. There are references here to the season and dancing with one of Lord Edgington's sons."

"Why would Mr. Smythe have these ladies' journals?" Mrs. Carson pondered.

"Blackmail," Barrow said, without looking up from the stack of postcards he was flipping through. "Or at least the hope of finding something he could use for blackmail."

Carson felt both his eyebrows and the temperature in the room climb dramatically. Barrow's comments on blackmail seemed almost prescient given recent events upstairs surrounding Smythe, and Carson was still not prepared to discuss the matter.

"Yes, well, I will just put these aside to examine more closely later," Carson commented as he placed the pile of books on his desk with a forced calm.

Carson turned to watch Mrs. Carson pull from the chest a large yellow envelope with the name 'Harold Smith' scrawled across its front in bold letters.

"That's odd," she muttered through pursed lips, "I thought his name was Smythe. This says Smith."

"I've not seen anything I thought he'd written himself," Barrow said. "The distinction may not mean much to him."

"Do we really know what his name is at all?" Carson asked. "It seems to me that the more we see here, the more questions are raised."

Mrs. Carson reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of photographs. Carson and Barrow instinctively moved in on either side to get a better look, as Mrs. Carson began flipping through the stack. The first few photos were of street scenes in unidentified locales. Carson thought that one or two might have been taken in Blackpool, but as he had only been there the one time many years before, he couldn't be certain that his surmise wasn't just the result of his earlier musings about the city.

"Do either of you think this looks a bit like Nanny Jenkins?" Mrs. Carson asked as she came upon a photo of a woman and a young boy. This was a posed portrait with the woman sitting in a high backed chair while the boy stood resting his hand on her shoulder. The style of dress indicated that the photo was at least a decade old.

"She's younger, but I think it is her," Barrow said. "And, I've only seen this man Smythe once or twice, but that boy in the photograph looks just about the right age to be him. He certainly has his coloring."

"I believe you're right," Carson moved even closer to examine the picture. "I think it is the two of them."

Mrs. Carson turned to the next picture. Noticing that it was a photo of the same two individuals taken months or perhaps a year after the previous one, she placed the street photos back in the envelop and focused on those with human subjects. In all, there were twelve portraits of the two of them, appearing to have been taken approximately once a year. The most recent two or three photos left no question who their subjects were – the former nanny and the groom's assistant, whatever their names may have been. In addition, there were a handful of other photos scattered throughout. Most were group shots that included people whose identities were totally unknown. Some were taken on a beach; all were taken outside.

"Oh my," Mrs. Carson intoned as she reached the next photo in the stack.

This photograph was of only Nanny Jenkins. Well, only Nanny Jenkins and a rug. Her clothing had been inconveniently left out of the picture entirely. And she was laying posed on the rug in a manner designed specifically to display certain key areas of her body.

Mrs. Carson reddened; Carson paled. Even Barrow had the good grace to appear stunned by the discovery. Mrs. Carson quickly flipped through the rest of the photographs, determining all the remaining were similarly comprised. Mortified by his wife's action and his failure to stop it, Carson plucked the pile of photographs out of her hands and quickly thrust them into a half-empty box of stationery that he had earlier pulled from the trunk.

"I must go check on things upstairs," he said. "I will take these with me and discuss their discovery with his lordship. Surely, the police will see this shines some new light on Nanny Jenkin's murder."

Carson turned, and still favoring his bruised knee, began to limp out of the room.

"Mr. Carson," his wife murmured. He froze in the doorway. "You might want to change your livery before you go up."

Carson blinked repeatedly as if he were trying to process the words and glanced down to take in the thick coating of filth in which he found himself covered. And then, rising to his full height, he walked on.

* * *

After a quick wash and a change of clothes, Carson took the box of photographs and went in search of his lordship. He found him sitting alone at his writing desk in the library conducting his afternoon correspondence.

"M'lord, please pardon the interruption. Have you a moment?"

"Certainly Carson," Lord Grantham said looking up at the butler as he replaced the cap on his pen.

"The groom delivered several boxes of Mr. Smythe's belongings downstairs earlier this afternoon," Carson began. Lord Grantham looked confused.

"What kind of belongings? And why would he deliver them to the house?"

"Well, m'lord, it seems that Mr. Smythe had a large number of personal effects stored in the lofts above the stables. Mr. Maloney felt that he was no longer obligated to store his abandoned belongings since he had neither seen nor heard from the man since he, as Mr. Maloney put it, 'disappeared like a thief in the night nearly a week ago.'"

"Yes, but why would he bring them to the house? And why would you allow this?"

"Well, m'lord, I was initially inclined to refuse. As you know, we have no room downstairs to operate a warehouse. However, it was pointed out to me that a fair number of questions have been raised about Mr. Smythe's background and motivations in this recent situation, and it was decided that we might examine his belongings for...clues, as it were."

"We?" Lord Grantham asked with a look of bemusement.

"Yes, well," Carson imagined he felt a slight shifting below his feet, "myself, Mrs. Carson, Mr. Bates, and, ahem, Mr. Barrow have been looking through some of the boxes."

"Barrow? Well, now that is intriguing. It sounds like you have formed quite the investigative team below stairs."

"I'm not sure I would go quite that far, m'lord."

"Well, you certainly can't do any worse than the local constabulary at this point."

"A glowing endorsement, m'lord," Carson said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. Lord Grantham raised his eyebrows and fought back a growing smirk.

"Yes, well, Carson, am I to take it that you and your detectives have found something you wish to share with me?"

"Yes m'lord, that is correct," Carson said holding out the box for examination.

Lord Grantham eyed Carson with delighted mirth for a moment as he reached out to take the package. His amusement soon turned to shock when he glanced down and saw its contents, however.

"Is this...who is this?" Lord Grantham asked incredulously.

"It would appear, m'lord, that these are photographs of Mr. Smythe and Nanny Jenkins together and, er, altogether – before she was Nanny Jenkins, one would assume."

"Well, who was she then?"

"That, we cannot yet say."

Lord Grantham flipped slowly through the pictures one by one. He then flipped through them a second time, stopping to examine one particular photograph of the young woman in question for a bit longer than could possibly be entirely proper.

"Well, it would appear," Lord Grantham said tearing his eyes away from the picture, "that the nanny and the groom's assistant had quite the past together."

"Yes, I should say so, m'lord."

"Carson," Lord Grantham began after a moment's silence spent staring pensively into the box, "where did you get this writing paper?"

"Writing paper, m'lord?" Carson was openly confused. Of all the things to ask about, writing paper? "It was in with Mr. Smythe's effects. I was merely using the box to..."

Lord Grantham reached out to open one of the small drawers across the top of his desk. He pulled out and unfolded a sheet of cream-colored paper, which Carson recognized immediately as the blackmail letter the family had passed around the room the day prior. Without taking his eyes off the note, he reached into the box, removed a sheet of writing paper, and held them out to Carson for comparison.

Carson frowned. The paper certainly looked the same. Lord Grantham fingered the paper in each hand thoughtfully.

"This is a fairly decent quality paper. Heavy bond," Lord Grantham said. He held both papers up to the light. "Ah, look here, Carson. See this watermark." Carson moved behind him to confirm that the center of each page held a distinctive watermark featuring an elaborate insignia above the words 'Fenmore Mills.'

Carson was befuddled. He couldn't begin to grasp the significance of the papers being produced by the same manufacturer. He frowned briefly as he wondered if his lordship had happened upon some peculiar new hobby that involved a fascination with watermarks. Not so different from collecting stamps, he thought, but now seemed an ill-timed moment to begin to nurture such interests.  
"Is Bates still in with Murray?" Lord Grantham's question pulled Carson from his musings.

"Ah, I believe so, m'lord."

"Very good," Lord Grantham said while folding the blackmail letter up and replacing it in the desk drawer, along with the box of pictures. "I'd like you and Bates to meet me back here at half six."

"Yes m'lord," Carson said as he fought a brief, but valiant battle against his eyebrows, which attempted to draw closer to his hairline. Surely at some point someone must realize that the work of the house continues, he thought with an inward sigh.

* * *

As Carson was descending the staircase to check on what new havoc might have been rendered below stairs, he encountered Lady Mary on the landing. He was instantly set on edge.

"Can I help, m'lady?" While the family was clearly free to travel anywhere within their house that they saw fit, Carson was always most uncomfortable when they ventured below stairs. These unexpected and unplanned moments of convergence between the upstairs and downstairs worlds caused him mild panic and always seemed to result in minor catastrophes and embarrassments for himself or the staff.

"No thank you, Carson. I was just here to see Mrs. Carson." Carson gave a brief nod as Lady Mary continued past. Perhaps at least this imagined disaster had been averted on this day.

Or perhaps not. After climbing two additional steps, Lady Mary turned and whispered to him, almost conspiratorially.

"Carson, I'm afraid I may have gotten you into some trouble," she said. He turned to look up at her with an open, questioning face. "I assumed you would have told her," she continued.

Oh, good Lord. Carson blanched. He sighed before pulling himself to his full height.

"And, if I may ask, what exactly did you tell her, m'lady?" Carson asked with all the deference he could muster.

"Everything. The moving of the body, the blackmail letter, just everything."

Carson wondered briefly how many misconceptions had been conveyed that he might have to correct. Lady Mary pivoted on the stairs as if to go, but then seemed to think better of it.

"Carson, I'm curious," she said turning back to him with a slight frown. "Why didn't you tell Mrs. Carson about all of this? I certainly wouldn't have expected you to tell just anyone, but given that she is your wife, and of course she has the family's utmost trust, and then there is her relationship with Anna, I would have thought..." She trailed off as if she didn't know exactly how to elaborate on just what she would have thought.

For an instant, Carson thought to bluster about the impropriety of gossiping about the family below stairs and about her assumption that he would have done just that, but he doubted that in that moment he could achieve a convincing level of indignation. He glanced around briefly, fully aware that he was having this conversation with a member of the family in a very public location on the stairs. His knee still hurt, and he very much wanted just to sit down.

"M'lady, I've hardly known what to make of all of this myself," Carson said with a sigh. "And the fact remains that some secrets are not ours to tell."

Lady Mary raised on eyebrow and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Interesting. Mrs. Carson just said essentially the same thing to me not ten minutes ago."

* * *

"I understand you had a visit from Lady Mary," Carson said as he limped through the open door to the housekeeper's sitting room. He closed the door behind him and dropped into the nearest chair. Best to address this issue head on, if there was to be an issue at all, he thought.

"Indeed," she said, spinning her desk chair around to face him. Her faced was adorned with a grin, as if she was fighting back an inclination at laughter. Perhaps this was not going to be as bad as all that.

"She says the new nanny will arrive on Saturday."

"Well, that should be a relief."

"Yes, it should. Of course, that is not what she was actually here for."

"Oh? Why do you say...?"

"She has never come below stairs to personally deliver staffing news before. She was here trying to confirm her suspicions about Anna's condition."

"You mean the child?" he leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially as best he could.

"Yes. She seemed to think that Mr. Bates might have told me if there was anything to tell."

Carson raised a brow and pursed his lips. "Well, she's not so far off there. What did you tell her?"

"Nothing really. I told her that if Anna and Mr. Bates had any such news to share, it would best be left to them to decide who they told in their own time. I was a little gentler than that, of course, but that was the thrust of it."

"Why not just tell her? You told me."

"Really, Charles, it's hardly the same. You're my husband. And Mr. Bates agreed I might tell you. He specifically did not want me to tell anyone else, including Lady Mary."

"Alright, so how was your secrecy received?"

"Well, we are talking about Lady Mary," she said with a laugh. "She wasn't particularly thrilled that I was less than forthcoming, but she handled it fairly well. I must admit, she has the best of intentions where Anna is concerned. She is quite worried."

He just nodded absently. He couldn't help but feel that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"She seemed to think that if she could tell her ladyship about Anna, about the child, it would be enough to convince her and Lady Edith to go to the police."

"She doesn't actually believe that Lady Edith is responsible for the nanny's death?" he asked with a start.

"No, I don't think so. I think she believes that if they went to the police and admitted their folly, took the blackmail note to the police, it would undermine Mr. Smythe as a witness against Anna."

"I see," he said. But he wasn't entirely sure he did see. The sketchy plan seemed an awfully big risk with little promise of the expected reward.

"About that note," he began, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. She released a tired, ragged sigh.

"Charles, I shouldn't think at this point you need explain why you didn't tell me about this. It seems we have been here before."

"Yes, it does," he said lowly, rubbing his hands nervously over his knees.

"Perhaps," she said, meeting and holding his eyes, "we might both take a lesson from this, since we keep ending up back at this same spot."

"Oh?"

"It's easier to be on the same side if we are both working with the same facts."

"I would hope we were always on the same side," he said.

She blinked at him with a thin weary smile. He was struck once again by how tired she looked, how tired he felt.

"We generally are, eventually, but we get there sooner when we help each other along."

He glanced away, resting his eyes on the fireplace. Of course, she was right, he thought, but he still wasn't sure he was prepared to discuss all the gruesome and prurient details Smythe had brought to their doorstep.

"Lady Mary said this letter mentioned you personally. I would have hoped you might have at least told me that." She was eying him with a steady, almost accusatory gaze, but he thought he detected a pained quality in her words.

"Elsie, I..." and then he found he didn't know what to say.

Without words to aid him, he stood and crossed to stand in front of her. In one fluid movement, he reached out, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet and into an embrace. They stood there leaned against one another in weary solidarity for a fair few moments before she spoke again.

"I hope it isn't your plan to change the subject by seducing me into your arms," she chuckled against his chest.

His body shook with silent laughter as he leaned down to place a kiss in her hair.

"I couldn't dream of such a plot," he said. "My wife is the plotter. I merely muddle through."

"Charles," she sighed, "is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

"No," he answered, probably too quickly.

"Is there anything else I would like to know?" she asked, her voice filled with an ironic mirth. She always was too smart for him by half.

"Undoubtedly."

"I think you should tell me then," she chided gently while tightening her clasp around his waist.

He exhaled slowly and rolled his eyes. There was nothing for it.

"Alright," he sighed.

"Alright?"

"Alright."


	11. The Dagger

When Thomas used his crutches to push past the throng and into the kitchen, he found Mrs. Patmore sat in a chair in the corner, rending on a handkerchief and sobbing uncontrollably, with Mrs. Carson leaned over her frantically issuing tones that walked a fine line between exasperation and commiseration.

Andy, Molesley, Phyllis, and Daisy were stood in a silent knot watching the scene unfold from just in front of the doorway. They were wearing expressions that ranged from bemused to horrified to sickeningly sympathetic (naturally, that was Phyllis).

Lily was standing, wide-eyed and perhaps terrified, faced away from the entire room. She appeared to be making a valiant effort to completely deny the events unfolding around her as she continuously stirred a large spoon about in a pot on the stove.

Every drawer and cabinet door in the kitchen was standing wide open, and all the utensils, bowls, crockery, and cooking tools once contained within were now spread haphazardly across every counter, table, and surface of any sort within the room.

Carson was stood in the middle of it all looking for all the world as though he might at any moment spontaneously combust.

"All this over a missing knife?" Thomas leaned to the side to quietly address his question to Daisy.

"It were a gift from her nephew, Archie," Daisy divulged. "The one what died in the war."

A gift? Who gives a kitchen knife as a gift? Thomas wondered.

"Why not just use another knife?" Molesley asked pushing in behind them.

"It's sentimental," Daisy whispered harshly. Phyllis gave Molesley a look that rested somewhere between besotted encouragement and compassionate disappointment.

"Who gets sentimental over a kitchen knife?" Andy asked. Daisy glared at him, but Thomas wondered the same thing.

"And she just noticed it missing today? When was the last time this knife was used?" Thomas asked.

"I wouldn't know for certain. Only Mrs. Patmore uses that knife, but I think it has been at least a week. She only uses it when we serve poultry at dinner."

"What?" Thomas hissed. "Does all the kitchen cutlery have such specific purposes?"

"Of course not," Daisy groaned with a roll of her eyes. "That would be ridiculous."

"And this isn't?"

Thomas glanced past Daisy to see that one of the housemaids – what was her name? Ah yes, Molly – was leaned around the frame of the other door, nervously surveying the mayhem. There was something about her demeanor, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it was something that went beyond the mere curiosity or even outright frustration being displayed by the rest of the gathered staff. It was something that made him view her with fresh suspicion.

"Alright, everyone, let's get on," Mrs. Carson called out. "We all have work to get back to."

Thomas watched as Molly fairly bolted toward the backdoor. Phyllis, taking her cue from Mrs. Carson, began shepherding Molesley and Andy towards the servants' hall like errant sheep. Her efforts to encourage Thomas to join her flock were abandoned when met with uncompromising resistance.

Carson licked his lips and took one final shaky, red-faced look around the room before stalking out. It was perhaps the quietest paroxysm of pure rage any of them would ever witness.

"Daisy, do you think you and Lily can put the kitchen right on your own, or would you like us to ask some of the hall boys to come in and help?" Mrs. Carson asked. Daisy's eyes flashed with but a brief hint of insecurity before she answered with more authority than Thomas might have expected.

"We'd best make a good start on our own," she said. "The boys don't know where anything goes."

"You're probably right. Are things still on course for dinner?"

"I think so. We'll just clear the space to work for now."

"Good. Mrs. Patmore and I will be in my sitting room for a few minutes. I'm sure she will be back with you shortly, but if there are any problems, please come let me know."

Thomas measured his options and, realizing that it was unlikely he would immediately be able to negotiate the kitchen for a cup of tea, decided he might step out into the yard for a smoke. He hobbled through the door to find the housemaid sitting pensively on the crate in the middle of the courtyard. This could prove interesting, he thought.

"Molly, is it?" Thomas asked as he settled himself carefully onto the crate next to her. She gave a tight nod of her head and refused to glance in his direction, while sliding almost imperceptibly away from him to perch on the farthest edge of the box.

Thomas fumbled with his cigarette box, holding it out to offer the maid one. She wordlessly shook her head and wrinkled her nose with an air of disgust. He raised his eyebrows at her blatant insociability as he put a cigarette to his mouth and lit it. Taking a slow drag, he watched her out of the corner of his eye while she continued to wring her hands and glance nervously about.

"What do you know about this knife business?" he asked calmly after a significant pause. Her reaction was anything but calm.

"Why would you ask me that?" she very nearly shouted. She leapt to her feet and paced off the steps to the door, before turning and walking half-way back to face him. Her hands hung at her sides, clasping and releasing repeatedly. She was breathing heavily and eying him like a half-mad dog ready to attack. Thomas smelled fear.

"I notice you didn't answer my question," he drawled sedately before taking another pull on his cigarette.

"I don't have to answer you. You're not my superior. I answer to Mrs. Carson."

"Now, now. There's no need to be so sharp," Thomas said. "This is just a friendly chat between colleagues."

"Friendly chat, indeed," she scoffed.

"Are you opposed to friendliness on principle then?" Thomas asked. Strangely, Thomas thought he might be able to respect such a position if applied consistently.

"Of course not. What does that even mean?"

"Well then, good, we can have a friendly chat. Why did you take Mrs. Patmore's knife?"

"I never said I did," she seethed. Watching her as she continued to clasp and release her hands, he had the momentary impression that she might be about to begin bouncing up and down like a child throwing a tantrum.

"No, not in so many words, but you've not actually denied it either," he said in falsely sympathetic tones. "Let me phrase this another way. Molly, can you imagine why anyone might remove a knife from the kitchens?"

She closed her eyes and stood silently for a moment, seeming to force her body to calm. Her hands stopped flexing and she relaxed her posture just slightly before she spoke.

"Well," she said, stretching the word far beyond its natural length. "I imagine that with the household actively working to bring a murder suspect back here from prison one might – might, I say – feel the need for some sort of security in the privacy of one's room. One might not have ever thought that this knife was anything particularly special to anyone."

Oh good Lord. This again? If the girl was so fearful – of Anna Bates of all people – that she thought sleeping with a knife under her pillow necessary protection, he couldn't imagine how she might survive the comings and goings of this house.

"Molly, your Uncle Thomas is going to give you a bit of unsolicited advice," Thomas said while intently studying the red hot tip of the cigarette as he twisted it between his thumb and forefinger. "A life in service is not for everyone. It would seem to me, it might not be for you."

She barked out an ironic laugh.

"Service is not a life for any woman with self-regard," she snarled.

"Indeed?" Thomas asked with a raised brow and a wide grin. "And why are you here then? Are you lacking in self regard? I can't imagine."

She thrust out her chin and pulled herself to her tallest height, glaring at him contemptuously down her nose.

"Service is just a means of support until something better comes calling," she said.

"Something or someone?" he asked barely bothering to contain his laughter. She ignored the question entirely.

"What self-respecting woman would want to toil her life away with the best reward on offer to one day become a bitter, angry old housekeeper?" she asked with a haughty, meaningful jerk of her head towards the door.

"Yes, perhaps better to start early as a bitter, angry young housemaid," he answered sardonically. Again, she ignored him and plowed forward.

"Who wants to await death as a barren old spinster, forever untouched and unloved? Or even worse, be forced at the end of life into a marriage of disdainful convenience, trading services to some overbearing, blustering old simpleton for support in your dotage?" She looked at him pointedly as if she thought she had just made a particularly astute observation that she very much wished he should catch on to.

Thomas felt his eyebrows climb. He simply couldn't imagine concerning himself with defending the Carsons and their relationship to a housemaid (or anyone else for that bloody matter), but he was genuinely perplexed at the astonishing inaccuracy of the girl's assessment. A healthy level of cynicism was a thing to be cultivated, but this girl had virtually no idea what was going on around her. Her lack of basic observational skills rendered her utterly useless.

"I'll give you this: you certainly are confident in your ideas of the world, no matter how laughably inaccurate they may be."

"What's it to you?" she snapped.

"It's nothing to me. As I said before – just a friendly chat between colleagues. But unless it is your genuine desire to make enemies where you should at least create the illusion of making friends, I would suggest in general that you pay a bit more attention to observing the loyalties of those around you before you open your mouth."

"You're hardly well regarded here," she taunted. "It certainly never stops you expressing whatever fool thought comes to your head."

Thomas found himself momentarily taken aback. The girl was off her rocker.

"I admit to being somewhat fascinated by the notion that you imagine you know what thoughts are in my head," Thomas sneered. "I assure you I do not express even a small minority of them. And you, for one, might consider yourself quite lucky that is the case."

"Well, I'd say I'm equally fascinated that you might think I care one wit what your thoughts are regarding me or anything else," she retorted, affecting an arrogant air.

But Thomas still smelled fear. Fear, coupled with this level of self-important foolishness could only lead to a fall, he thought. Might as well squash her now and enjoy it.

Thomas stretched his legs out in front of him and gave her a sly smile.

"Molly," he began thoughtfully, "in just the past two days, and stuck as I am below stairs, I have watched as you have alienated very nearly everyone in this house to one degree or another. Ordinarily, I might find such antics as yours quite amusing, but there is something about you I find particularly repulsive."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he just hammered on.

"You remind me a bit of a rather simple-minded version of someone else I once knew – all self-important arrogance and suspicion, always with plans for something more. Only in your case, you don't have what it takes to see any of those plans through. If you had a brain in your head, you might have been capable of exploiting this whole situation to your advantage somehow, but as it is you're just not smart enough to carry this life off. Why, you don't even have the good sense to pretend to cultivate a friendship with the one person a housemaid is most likely to need on her side."

"Who, you?" she asked with a scornful laugh.

"No, the bitter, angry housekeeper," he said, echoing her words with a derisive smirk. "Mrs. Carson is hardly the most difficult person in the house to show a bit of occasional friendliness to, true or not."

"I know what I'm about,"she snapped.

He eyed her skeptically. What did that even mean? He wondered.

"Here is my advice to you, Molly," he said, drawing out her name with an indignant flair. "By the end of the day you are going to give Mrs. Carson your notice."

"And why would I do that? Because you told me to?" she laughed. "I think I made it clear I don't answer to you."

"Give notice today and Mrs. Carson is still likely to give you a good character. Choose to wait until tomorrow and I wouldn't be so certain that will be the case." He glared at her pointedly.

"And just what do you suggest I tell the old witch about why I am leaving?"

"What do I care what you tell her? Don't tell her anything," he said as he lifted his good foot to snuff his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. "The loss of one odious housemaid is hardly enough to worry over, much less question. The likes of you can be replaced before the ink is dry on your reference."

At that, a flush began to spread across her cheeks and down her neck, and she began to shake. Observing her, he got the distinct impression that she might be about to cry. Thomas did not blink. He merely continued to grin. After a moment, she turned abruptly and began to stalk violently back towards the house.

"Oh, and Molly," he sang out. She froze in yard and stood facing away from him, waiting for him to continue. "Return Mrs. Patmore's knife to her within twenty minutes or I will have your room searched. And if you doubt that for one moment, you are an even bigger fool than I credited. Heaven only knows what we would find in there."

Mrs. Carson stepped out the door just as the tearful maid pushed past her into the house. She clasped her hands in front of her waist and flashed Thomas a brief, but telling smile, before rolling her lips to adopt a more serious expression as she stepped towards him.

"Mr. Barrow," she said slowly, "did my ears deceive me or did you just dismiss one of my maids?"

He watched her cagily for a moment. Her general demeanor was nearly admonitory, but her eyes sparkled with an unexpressed mirth. He wondered just how long she had been listening from beyond the door.

"No, of course not, Mrs. Carson," he drawled around the new cigarette he was lighting. "I've not authority to dismiss anyone."

She stood watching him in silence for a moment, chewing her lip, eyes turning to slits as if she were trying to puzzle out answers to long-held questions.

"No, of course not," she echoed. "I clearly misread the situation."

"Clearly," he said, maintaing an even, level gaze.

She moved slightly as if to leave, but then seemed to think better of it.

"Thomas," she said softly.

"Yes?" He responded with a sigh, while he fought to keep his eyes from rolling about in his head.

"Thank you."

"Whatever for, Mrs. Carson? I'm just here trying to enjoy my cigarette in peace."

"Yes, of course," she smirked, turning to walk back inside. "There's tea in Mr. Carson's pantry whenever you would like to rejoin us."

Soon after she crossed the threshold and disappeared from his view, her laughter rang down the hallway and throughout the courtyard. Thomas just shook his head and smiled. Clearly, they had all gone mad. Absolutely mad.

* * *

"Murray said there is talk of holding a coroner's inquest," Bates was telling the Carsons as Thomas paused in the doorway a short time later. "There seems to be some question about the cause of death."

Carson was seated behind his desk with his fingers tented in front of his face, while Bates and Mrs. Carson had taken the armchairs and pulled them around to face him. Boxes and crates still filled the room, but in much less overwhelming numbers than previously.

"Shouldn't this all have happened before they made an arrest?" Mrs. Carson asked, waving Thomas into the room and indicating that he should take a seat in a chair situated near the door.

"Yes, that's what Murray said. He's not that clear on why they pushed forward with arresting Anna so quickly and with such meager evidence."

"If the police that showed up here are a representative example of Britain's finest, I expect the dowager will be serving time for the Whitechapel murders by the end of the week," Thomas muttered, reaching out to accept the cup of tea Mrs. Carson was passing him. Even Carson's lips twitched into a subtle smile in response.

"Well, there is that," Bates smirked, "but there also seems to be some notion that we got the better of them last time. More specifically, that I got the better of them with my false confession and escape during the whole Green mess. Murray thinks they wanted Anna securely away so that there was no chance of us fleeing during the investigation."

"That hardly seems reasonable," Mrs. Carson said through pursed lips. "I would have thought they needed to have completed the investigation, at least to a greater degree than this, before an arrest could be made."

Carson knitted his brow and murmured something unintelligible about the Magna Carta.

"Murray seems to agree, but he says it may still take quite some time to work this out and see her free. Even then, she may face charges if the police don't identify the real murderer."

"Speaking of the police," Mrs. Carson sighed, "Sergeant Willis phoned earlier. He would like me to come to York early next week to try and identify that bed sheet."

Carson blanched and began to slowly shake his head.

"No. I don't want you going to York to meet with the police alone," Carson said. "I don't like it at all."

Mrs. Carson turned her head to the side and looked as though she might at any moment burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

"And what exactly do you think is going to happen?" she asked.

"I don't know," Carson said, "but I am unwilling to find out. They've already spirited Anna off."

Thomas wanted to think Carson ridiculous in this, but even he wasn't sure he entirely trusted the situation. A vivid memory of Officer Taylor slamming a pistol down on the desk with the muzzle pointed toward him leapt to Thomas's mind.

"I don't want to be involved in this, but I did agree to look at it," she said throwing her hands up. "And you all but told them not to come back here."

"Fine, but you are not going alone. I forbid it," Carson said.

"You forbid it?" Now, this was going to get interesting. A sudden heavy silence engulfed the room. Bates moved seemingly instinctively to push his chair back away from the potential line of fire.

Mrs. Carson leaned her head back and closed her eyes; she gripped the arms of her chair until her fingers turned white. For several moments, no one said a word. Even Thomas held his breath, not out of anxiety, but out of barely hidden gleeful anticipation at what was surely to come.

"Mr. Carson," she enunciated slowly, "for the time being, I am going to choose to leave your final statement aside, and simply suggest that if you are that concerned, then you, as my husband, might accompany me yourself."

"You know that's impossible," he observed dismissively. "We cannot both be out of the house under the current circumstances."

"Well, then," she ground out through gritted teeth, "perhaps Mr. Bates could accompany me."

Carson sat back and studied Bates for a moment. Bates appeared somewhat less than enthusiastic at the prospect of dropping in on the police to help them in their attempts to build a murder case against his wife.

"I would be happy..." Bates began, although his tone demonstrated that he was anything but happy.

"No. I'll not send a man to assist in the prosecution of his wife," Carson said.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mrs. Carson said. "If I thought that was where this was leading, I wouldn't go myself."

"Still, I hardly think..."

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Carson released an exasperated sigh. "Just what do you suggest I do then, Mr. Carson?"

"I don't know," he said, and then almost as an afterthought: "Take Barrow."

"What?" Thomas cried out. "Why would you...?" Mrs. Carson tossed up a hand to silence him.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, I am interested in hearing this," Mrs. Carson said steadily. "Why Mr. Barrow?"

"I can't say precisely," Carson said, resting his eyes on a spot across the room. "Under the circumstances, our options are limited. And I don't believe Mr. Barrow would allow anything to happen to you if he could prevent it."

"Well, of course he wouldn't," she stated emphatically, slapping her hands down on her knees. Well, at least there was that. Whatever that was, Thomas thought.

"Have you noticed that Mr. Barrow is still in a cast?" she asked. "Travel is going to be rather a challenge right now."

Thomas looked to Carson just in time to see his entire demeanor change. For no more than a second, so short a period of time that one might have easily missed it, Carson's shoulders rolled forward, his posture loosened, and his face dropped. In that moment, Carson looked like a thoroughly defeated man. And then the moment was gone.

"Mr. Barrow," Carson intoned in his most professional butler's voice, "would you mind terribly accompanying Mrs. Carson on her visit to the police headquarters in York?"

Thomas's first instinct was to respond with some snide remark along the lines of, "well, well, two requests from you lot in one day. Whatever have we come to?" But he managed to reel himself in.

He tried to quickly evaluate this proposed arrangement for any potential downside. He could find none. He knew that this request was coming not so much from Carson the butler, but from Mr. Carson the husband, but he was certain that any potential goodwill earned through his cooperation might be repaid professionally. This, he thought, could offer a boon. If nothing else, there was always the potential for intriguing gossip to gained from the experience and, though travel with his injured foot might be tiresome, he thought he would rather enjoy getting away from the house, even under these circumstances.

"Mr. Barrow?" Carson said rather quietly, drawing him from his thoughts.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright."


	12. Miss Marigold in the Nursery

Carson was not looking forward to another meeting with his lordship over this Smythe issue. He certainly wanted Anna released immediately and this whole mess cleared up, but he was perplexed as to why he was being continually pulled into the ongoing proceedings. Police work was well outside the purview of his regular duties, and he felt he had little more to offer towards a resolution. He had by now lost even the slightest bit of personal curiosity about either Smythe or the nanny. He just wanted the entire situation resolved quickly so that Anna could come home and he could get back to the job of managing the household, which, by the by, had descended into utter chaos. At this point, he anticipated that it would take days, if not weeks, of extra duties and late nights to bring conditions back up to snuff.

Suppressing a heavy sigh, Carson followed Mr. Bates out of the butler's pantry with just enough time to join his lordship in the library for their appointed meeting, but as they approached the staircase, he glanced into the servants' hall and saw something so alarming that he veritably froze mid-step. Mr. Bates immediately noticed Carson's change in demeanor and shot him an inquisitive glance.

"Mr. Carson? Are you quite we...?" His voice trailed off as his eyes followed Carson's line of vision.

The two of them stood virtually motionless for several moments, glancing from each other into the hall and feeding on one another's apprehensions, until Carson finally found his voice.

"Mrs. Carson, might I see you out here for a moment?" he asked, leaning back into his pantry.

Mrs. Carson paused, looking somewhat alarmed by his tone (or perhaps at the notion that he was asking her to step into the hall for a meeting), but recovered quickly.

"Certainly." She stepped through the door and glanced back and forth between Carson and Mr. Bates expectantly. Carson looked down into his wife's eyes and found that he was suddenly incapable of forming words to express his thoughts. In the alternative, he raised his hand, palm-side up, and gestured towards the servants' hall.

A large knife, presumably the same knife for which Mrs. Patmore had earlier upturned the kitchens and derailed the preparation of dinner, had been driven with apparent force into the servants' dining table. While this, in and of itself, was decidely odd, the most troubling thing for Carson was the specific placement of the knife. It was not in the center of the table, nor did it appear to have been placed randomly. The knife was driven with exacting precision well into the surface of the table, directly in front of the seat just to the right of his own – the place that Mrs. Carson had most frequently occupied for years, and which she had come to exclusively occupy in recent months.

"Ah, I see," Mrs. Carson said. "Well, that is one less thing to worry about. I shall see to it that Mrs. Patmore knows it has been returned."

Carson was stunned. His alarm grew measurably in the face of this placid response to what he viewed as an overt threat, and he found himself incapable of doing more than just staring at his wife in dismay.

"Was there something else, Mr. Carson?" she asked after a tense moment.

"Mr. Bates," Carson said lowly as he continued to maintain eye contact with his wife, "would you mind going on ahead? I will catch up with you outside the library."

Bates glanced tentatively back and forth between the heads of staff, before making a silent retreat up the stairs.

"Do you not see what this is?" Carson asked quietly, after a moment's hesitation.

"Of course, it's a knife, the one Mrs. Patmore has been searching for, if I'm not mistaken." She eyed him quizzically.

"It has not just been returned, as you put it. It has been driven into the table. You don't see that as … troubling?"

She wrinkled her brow and studied him intently. Carson was struck by a sudden, and most unwelcome, feeling of intense vulnerability. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. For a split second, rational thought abandoned him, and his panicked mind called to him to grab her by the hand and run as fast as he could, dragging her from the house if necessary.

"Well, of course, it is rather melodramatic, and I do hope there was no serious damage done to the table," Mrs. Carson said.

"The table? Your concern is the table? Do you not notice the specific placement? Mrs. Carson, a knife has been forcefully and purposefully driven into your place at that table. I view that as a threat."

Her eyes grew wide and her eyebrows raised as recognition of what he was saying dawned on her, but the faintest of smiles played across her lips.

"Oh, no, I don't think that is..."

"You are to stay in my pantry with Mr. Barrow until I return," he demanded. "And for the rest of the evening, I want your vow that you will never be alone even for a moment. If Barrow is not available, go spend your time in the kitchens with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore, or have a couple of the older hall boys come in and sit with you."

"I should hardly think that's necessary," she laughed. "I'm not a child. Mr. Carson, that knife..."

Oh, good Lord. Why could she not just listen for once? Why did every single thing have to become a debate? He blinked rapidly, trying to fight back tears that were threatening to form. Without a thought to the fact that they were stood in the corridor where anyone could happen upon them, he reached up and laid his palm gently against her cheek. She started at this unexpected touch.

"Elsie, please listen to me. I don't have time to discuss this now. Just let me win this once," he pleaded. "A woman was killed in this house not a week ago, and now we have these strange goings-on with this knife. None of us really know what is happening here. I need to know that you are safe. I need you to be safe."

She turned her cheek into his hand with a sigh, and reached up to lightly grasp his wrist.

"Charles, I'm fine. I'm fine. But if you are this concerned I shall do as you ask. I'll remain with Mr. Barrow. I'll not be alone."

He released a long ragged breath and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. A single tear had now overflown its bank. Before he could turn his face to hide it from her view, Elsie reached out to thumb the moisture from his cheek.

"Oh, my dear," she whispered. "I'm fine. Nothing is going to happen. I will do just as you asked."

"Good," he said, pausing to take a deep, calming breath. "I'm going to send Andrew and Molesley up tonight to check the women's corridor before bedtime."

"Check it for what?"

"I don't know. Intruders. It will make me feel better to know it is secure."

"And what precisely are Andy and Mr. Molesley, of all people, going to do if they find an intruder?" she asked incredulously.

"I suppose be targets so the women can escape," he chuckled as he stroked her cheek.

* * *

"Oh good, Carson, Bates, do come in," Lord Grantham called as Carson opened the door to the library. His lordship was again seated at his writing desk and was sampling from a glass of what appeared to be brandy. Carson was surprised to discover that Lady Mary and Lady Edith were also present, seated across from each other on the sofas.

Carson exchanged glances with Lady Mary as he took up a position behind the opposite sofa and near the door. Bates, responding to Lord Grantham's beckoning gestures, walked further into the room to stand next to his lordship.

"I must apologize for our tardiness, m'lord. I was delayed below stairs with a minor staffing matter," Carson said.

"Anything we should concern ourselves with?" Lord Grantham asked with a smirk. They were almost a full three minutes late.

"Rest assured, all is well in hand, m'lord."

"I've no doubt," Lord Grantham said, his smile warming.

A guarded silence fell over the room. Lord Grantham sipped at his drink while the others waited for him to reveal their purpose in gathering.

"Yes, well, Cora is in her room with a headache," Lord Grantham finally began, "so that should make this conversation just a bit easier."

Bates wrinkled his brow in confusion as Lord Grantham reached into the desk drawer and brought out the folded blackmail letter. Carson fought to hide his astonishment as his lordship held the letter out to Bates.

"We received a letter from Smythe yesterday," Lord Grantham explained. "I think you should read it, Bates."

Lady Edith rose unsteadily from her seat on the sofa and crossed quickly to stand in front of the windows. Carson watched as her entire body seemed to quiver while she peered absently out over the grounds. Bates cautiously lifted the letter out of Lord Grantham's hand and glanced anxiously around the room before unfolding it and quickly scanning its contents.

"Is this true, m'lord?"

"Well, Bates," Lord Grantham sighed, "suffice it to say my women seem to have gone mad, but not so mad as to have actually killed anyone."

"And Mr. Carson?"

Oh, good Lord. Lady Mary barked out a laugh.

"Well Carson certainly didn't kill anyone," she said. "And I'll thank you to leave me out of this list of women who have gone mad, as well. This is all Edith and Mama."

Edith shuddered from her place in front of the window. Bates looked to his lordship with raised brows.

"Carson had no role in this," Lord Grantham said. "We have no clue why this man Smythe dragged his name into it." Carson managed to maintain his professional demeanor by merely giving Bates a slight nod of his head.

"I don't understand, m'lord," Bates said. "Why show me this letter? If it's not true, why not just burn it and be done with it?"

"It's not entirely true," Lord Grantham said hesitantly, "but there are, apparently, elements of truth here that might cause significant problems for the family if Smythe were to take them to the police."

Well, that was putting it mildly, Carson thought.

"Papa, I thought you wanted to discuss some sort of plan to free Anna," Lady Mary said.

"I'm getting to that," Lord Grantham said reaching again into the desk drawer and removing the stationery box that Carson had delivered to him earlier in the day. "I believe it is obvious to all of us here that Smythe is the suspect that the police should be focusing on. He is clearly a blackmailer, and he most likely killed the nanny as well."

"Yes, m'lord?" Bates nodded slowly.

"We need to refocus police attention on Smythe. Right now, the entire case against Anna rests solely on his statement. If I were to press charges against him for attempted blackmail, he would lose all credibility, the case against Anna would fall apart, and the police would have no choice but to release her."

"Forgive me, m'lord, but I am confused. Did you not just say that there is information in this letter that would cause problems if taken to the police?" Bates asked.

"Yes, I did, and that is where you come in," Lord Grantham said, before reaching over and unceremoniously lifting the lid off the stationery box. Carson felt his throat constrict. He looked wildly about the room. Surely his lordship didn't plan to introduce those pictures of Nanny Jenkins in the presence of the young ladies?

"Carson brought me this writing paper earlier," Lord Grantham said, holding the box out to Bates. Carson breathed a sigh of relief as he noted that the box now contained only the paper. "It was apparently found mixed in with some belongings that Smythe left behind last week."

"Writing paper? Papa, really, what is the point of this?" Lady Mary asked.

"Well, Mary," Lord Grantham answered tetchily, "if you study this paper closely, you will discover that it is identical to the paper Smythe wrote the blackmail letter on. But, as I said, this paper was left behind last week, before the nanny was killed, and Smythe has not been back to collect any of his things since. From its content, we know the letter was written after her death."

Lord Grantham looked anxiously about the room, as if waiting for any of them to come to a realization as to his point. His wait was in vain.

"Don't you see? There is a good chance that wherever Smythe is now, he has more of this paper with him," Lord Grantham breathed, barely hiding his exasperation. "When the police arrest him, they will match the paper and it will be additional proof that he is the writer of the blackmail letter."

"Alright?" Lady Mary urged him to continue.

"All we need to do is produce a new blackmail letter. One with the same demands, written in the same hand, on the same paper, but with a different subject. Then I go to the police and press charges. The rest will take care of itself."

With that, Lord Grantham took a rather large sip of his drink and grinned, looking immensely proud of himself. A tearful Lady Edith glanced quizzically over her shoulder at her father, before returning to her dark, solitary study of the English countryside.

Carson had no idea what Lord Grantham could possibly be suggesting, but he was surprised to note the comprehension that seemed to bloom on the faces of Lady Mary and Bates.

"Bates," Lord Grantham began slowly, "are you still in contact with your friend who helped us with that little matter concerning the Prince during Lady Rose's season?"

"Yes, m'lord, I believe I am," Bates said.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Papa, there is no friend," Lady Mary declared. Lord Grantham looked perplexed as he glanced back and forth between Lady Mary and an embarrassed, smirking Bates.

"Bates is quite an accomplished forger," Lady Mary stated, addressing her comments to Carson. "We are quite lucky to have him on our side."

Well, that brought everything into focus. Carson felt his eyebrows climb. Good Lord, this could not be happening.

"Yes, well," Lord Grantham choked out. "In any case, Bates, do you think you could produce the type of document that we have in mind?"

"I believe so, m'lord," Bates said studying the paper in his hand, "but you are going to need some other grist for the rumor mill, some secret worthy of blackmail."

"We have one," Lord Grantham said quietly with a glance to Lady Edith. "Marigold."

Lady Edith gave a shuddering tearful gasp, but remained focused on the scene outside the windowpanes.

"Marigold?" Lady Mary asked. "What about Marigold? Edith, what is this about?"

Lady Edith turned and looked resignedly at her father, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Do you want to tell her or shall I?" Lord Grantham asked, tensely staring down into the glass of amber swirling in his hand.

"Tell me what? What has Edith's ward to do with any of this?"

Lord Grantham looked up at Lady Edith with eyebrows raised.

"Marigold is not my ward," she said quietly turning back to the window. "She is my daughter. Mine and Michael's."

Mr. Bates shifted his weight uncomfortably on his cane and looked to the floor. Carson wondered irrationally if there might be a limit to the number of secrets one house could hold.

"Your what?" Lady Mary gasped. "Your daughter? But how? When?"

Lady Edith just wrapped her arms tightly around of herself as if trying to hold together all the pieces of her life that were threatening to shake apart. Lady Mary wrinkled her brow and worked this puzzle for a few seconds before realization dawned in her eyes.

"The trip to the continent with Aunt Rosamund," Lady Mary murmured before falling silent, deep in thought.

"Yes, your Aunt Rosamund," Lord Grantham said bitterly before taking another swallow from his glass.

"How did I not see this?" Lady Mary muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She lowered her gaze to the carpet and continued to stare off quietly through the floor as if ruminating on all the implications of this newfound knowledge.

"Papa," Lady Edith sighed tearfully. "Couldn't we find another way? Can't we at least leave my child out of this?"

"I'm sorry, Edith. I truly am, but you and your mother got us into this mess, and the only way forward I can see is for you to..."

"Absolutely not," Lady Mary snapped.

"Absolutely not what?" Lord Grantham asked, blinking back an expression of shock.

Lady Mary glanced briefly to Carson. A small tired smile played across his lips as he gave her an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

"Edith's actions in these matters aside," Lady Mary said, raising herself to her full height, "this is not our secret to reveal. It's Marigold's. She is the one most likely to be affected by its release. It is simply not our decision to make."

"Mary?" Lady Edith gasped, turning to look at her sister as if seeing her for the first time.

"It is unfortunate, but it must be done," Lord Grantham said. "We must keep our eyes on the objective. We cannot allow an innocent woman – Anna – to continue to languish in jail and possibly face the gallows. We must see her released, and we must do so without sacrificing Edith or your mother in the process."

"And we're to sacrifice my niece and your granddaughter instead?" Lady Mary asked incredulously. "Absolutely not. No, we shall see Anna released without any further sacrifice whatever."

"Just how will we do that? I can't see another way. We have to give the police something that looks like a credible blackmail scheme."

"We'll give them Mr. Pamuk," Lady Mary said smoothing her skirts.

Lord Grantham, never one to easily part ways with what he imagined a well-developed plan, appeared taken aback.

"Mary, the estate's creditors are not going to be pleased if you – my eldest daughter, the mother of the heir, and one of the estate's managers – becomes engulfed in a scandal."

Carson watched Lady Edith's shoulders sag and her face begin to crumple. In that moment, he heard Lord Grantham's words as they must have sounded to his second daughter – as a succinct account of all the reasons she and her child were dispensable, and Lady Mary was not.

"Oh really, Papa. The scandal is over a decade past. And everyone in London has known about it for years," Lady Mary said with a pointed glance towards Lady Edith. "Besides, I have been a wife, a mother, and a widow since then. My slate is wiped clean."

"But then doesn't that make it unlikely that this man Smythe would try to use that secret to blackmail us?" Lord Grantham asked.

"To the contrary. It makes it all the more likely that we would be willing to go to the police if he did."

"If I may, m'lord," Mr. Bates said. "Lady Mary is right. A man like Smythe wouldn't be likely to fully grasp the idea of scandal going stale. And he certainly wouldn't have the necessary access to London society to know the secret hadn't been secret for years."

Lord Grantham looked unsure.

"Papa, we don't need to give them a secret that we might actually pay to protect. We just need to give them a secret that the police will believe a conniving stablehand might think we would pay to protect," Lady Mary said.

Lord Grantham glanced almost desperately around the room for an ally to bolster his wavering confidence.

"What do you make of this Carson?"

Carson raised his eyebrows and tried to imagine just how he might actually answer that question. Or what question he was even being asked. What did he make of a plot to deliver a forged blackmail letter to the police? Setting the question of which scandal to fuel aside, the whole notion of the scheme was so far outside his range of rational thought that he briefly considered the past few days might have actually been some sort of bizarre fever-induced dream. Oh, when will I wake? he wondered.

"M'lord, if I may," Carson began, wondering why Lord Grantham would suddenly find it necessary to seek his opinion on anything more sensitive than wine pairings, "as it is Mr. Bates's wife who is imprisoned and Lady Mary's … ah, secret she appears willing to divulge, I think it best to defer to their judgments in this matter."

"Quite right," Lady Mary said definitively.

"Very well," Lord Grantham sighed as if he had been well and truly beaten. "Bates, you and I can go into the small library and work out the details of what the letter should say."

Lady Edith crossed to sit next to her sister on the sofa.

"Thank you," she muttered quietly.

"Nonsense," Lady Mary said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "We Crawleys stick together."

* * *

It was late, so very late, when Carson slowly climbed the stairs towards the servants' quarters and his bed. His knee was still giving him fits after that run in with Smythe's chest, and now he had the added joy of a burnt finger owing to Andrew's clumsy handling of a chafing dish during dinner service. Overall, though, Carson thought things might be looking up. As problematic as his lordship's strategy to free Anna seemed at first blush, Carson had simply decided to anticipate its success, owing entirely to the inevitability of its execution, and now looked forward to the household putting this ugliness behind.

Reaching the entrance to their dressing room from the men's corridor, Carson dismissed Molesley from the post he had set for him and sent him off to bed. After having Andrew and Molesley thoroughly check all servants' rooms for intruders directly after dinner, Carson had ordered Molesley to stand watch for the evening at the door separating the men's and women's corridors – on the men's side, of course. This location placed Molesley handily and unwittingly within inches of the actual subject of Carson's sole concern – the door through which one might reach Mrs. Carson. He had already demanded that she lock the door directly into the bedroom from the women's corridor. If Molesley thought the instructions odd, he had for once shown the good sense not to question.

"Are you still up?" he called to her as he entered their suite, noticing the light burning in the bedroom. "I thought surely you would be asleep by now."

"I was waiting for you," she said as he began preparing for bed.

He thought to tell her that was unnecessary, that she needed her rest, but he just couldn't bring himself to say the words. Truthfully, he was just that thrilled that she might even deem it worthy of her time to wait up for him at all. He still viewed the fact she had acquiesced to marry him with sheer joyful wonder.

"Molly gave her notice this evening," she said. "Not even notice, really. She's leaving in the morning."

Molly? Who? It seemed it was getting harder and harder to keep track of all their names, even with fewer of them than ever before. They came and went so quickly these days.

"I'm sorry to hear that. You don't need the extra work right now."

"It's really for the best," she sighed. "Extra work or not, that girl was more trouble than she was worth."

Hmm, who was this Molly? Ah, yes, the impudent one with so much to say about Anna, Carson supposed.

"You'll be happy to know that Mr. Molesley dutifully sat guard over that door all evening," she laughingly called to him as he slid the final drawer closed and crossed toward the bedroom.

"I know you think me ridiculous, but I..."

As he passed through the doorway, he was greeted with a sight so astonishingly unexpected, so astoundingly beautiful that both voice and motion immediately abandoned him. He stood captivated just inside the doorway, mouth agape. His wife was watching him expectantly from her position sitting leaned up against the pillows in her bed, with her arms wrapped around her knees. And just beside her, his own bed had been pushed up against hers.

The frames didn't match. His being wooden, hers being iron, the frames didn't match. As he stood there, it occurred to him wildly that he wasn't even certain the two beds were the same height. He wasn't sure how this could work with the two different beds, two different heights. It couldn't really be comfortable, could it? He wasn't sure if it could work at all. Oh, but how he wanted this to work.

"Come to bed, Charles," she said. "There's no need to stand there looking so petrified. I don't intend to do you harm. I just thought it an awful shame to have you all the way across the room."

He felt a smile bloom across his face as he gazed at her in awe. His Elsie. His wife.

"There's no need for you to look quite so smug either. Nothing has happened here to warrant all that." He wasn't certain that he heard her mumble "yet" when she lowered her head, but he certainly hoped he did.

"Nonsense," he said softly, as his feet finally broke free from the floor. "I somehow convinced Mrs. Elsie Hughes to marry me. However I managed that, it is certainly a feat of which I find myself more than a bit proud."

Moving as if in a trance, he slowly crossed the floor inch by inch. He was afraid to glance away from her, or even to blink, for fear that when he looked back he would discover it was all a mirage. She was a mirage.

"You're very flattering tonight, Mr. Carson," she said, lowering her eyes to glance up at him from under her lashes as he came to hover over the edge of the bed.

"Your hair looks lovely," he murmured, his mind absently grasping at a long-past conversation.

"What?" she laughed. "Really now, Charles, this is ridiculous. Come to bed."

She reached out to turn back the covers, and then patted a spot on the bed as if to further illuminate her instruction. He hesitated but a moment longer before darting inelegantly under the covers and pulling them around him. He flattened his back to the bed. Lying motionless, he looked to the ceiling and worked for a moment to regulate his breathing, corral his thoughts. He gave a little start when he felt her hand taking his own. Ever so slowly, almost as if she were dealing with a feral animal, she lifted his arm over her head and behind her neck to encircle her.

"There now, you see, isn't this better?" she asked as she shifted to rest her head against his shoulder and moved her hand to form small brisk circles on his chest.

He swallowed at the lump that had formed in his throat and nodded his head. Blinking back tears, he pulled her tighter to him and lowered his face into her hair to plant the smallest of kisses on the top of her head.

"One foot in front of the other, Mr. Carson. One foot in front of the other."

And all was right.


	13. The Poison

It was raining. Again. Bloody 'ell.

Thomas awoke to the sounds of thick raindrops pelting the windowpanes and a brash wind roaring across the eaves. April in Yorkshire. Just lovely.

It was still dark, just gone four o'clock, Thomas reckoned. He glanced to the clock beside his bed, not for the time, but out of habit, to satisfy a momentary spasm of sentimentality. Since he was a young boy, Thomas had been gifted with the unusual skill of always being able to recognize what time of day it was to within minutes, and without aid of any timekeeping device.

His father, a man high on superstition and low on familial devotion, had been unnerved by this unusual skill, viewing it, along with virtually any other talent Thomas demonstrated, as if it were some form of malevolent witchcraft. But not his mom. Never his mom.

Thomas was a late-life child, born sixteen years after the arrival of his only sibling, a quiet girl who had quickly absorbed what little parental affection the old man had available to give. But, whereas his father seemed to warily treat Thomas's unexpected arrival as the vengeance of an angry god handed down for some unknown or undisclosed sin of his youth, his mother viewed nearly everything the boy did with a quiet sense of adoration, wonderment, and awe. She reveled in each of young Thomas's accomplishments, no matter how small, bragging particularly about his unique ability to discern the time.

"The perfect gift of a clockmaker's son," she had joyously told friends, customers, villagers, passers-by, anyone who would listen. Running her fingers affectionately through little Thomas's hair, she would proudly declare that one day her boy too would be a great clockmaker, just like his father and his grandfather before him. Just like her father, as well. And in those moments, Thomas had no doubts that he would.

The mother's displays of open adoration for her son came to an abrupt halt one day in early June, when the father had closed the shop for the day to travel to York for some previously forgotten supplies, and the mother and son sat down alone together for a noontime meal of cheese, apple, and bread. In the midst of once again telling her boy the story of a childhood attempt to construct a raft to set her pet chicken, Susie, afloat on the River Swale, she had given an explosive, forceful laugh, and then fell suddenly silent and face first into her plate. After several tearful and desperate moments spent trying to awaken his mother, Thomas resolutely walked to the mantle clock and stilled its hands, as any good son of a clockmaker knew to do. It was 12:18 and Thomas was nine years old.

In recent years, it wasn't often Thomas had found himself ruminating about his parents, but the odd wet, sleepless night would on occasion lead his mind to wander down this all-to-familiar path. It was a rainy early morning – not unlike this one, Thomas thought as he rose from his bed to dress – when his father burst into his room and woke him with the order that he get dressed and pack whatever he wanted to take with him in one bag.

It had been a little more than two weeks since his mother's death. Two weeks of a house filled to capacity with hot tears and bitter anger. Two weeks of quiet looks of pity and panic from well-intentioned, but wholly-inadequate neighbors. And two weeks of disingenuous wailing from the ambush of village widows who had immediately swept in to envelop his father in their sisterhood of suffering.

"Where are we going?" Thomas asked. "How long will we be gone?" What an idiot he had been. His father just stared at him with an icy glare and coldly repeated his directive. Whatever you want. One bag.

He surreptitiously took the mantel clock – his mother's clock – wrapping it carefully in a few articles of his own clothing and stuffing the bag tightly with paper for further protection against the elements. The clock was all he had left. It was all he would need.

They marched through the cold rain to the train station, and as they waited on the platform, Thomas asked once more, "Where are we going? How long will we be gone?" His father just stared silently down the tracks, refusing to respond, refusing to move. Thomas clutched his bag with the clock in it to his chest as the wind blew rain pellets across his face. He thought in that moment that he might cry, but he didn't. His eyes were too heavy, too weary to produce anymore tears.

They boarded a train headed toward London before sunrise, and Thomas wondered if he might be taking him to his mother's cousins in Bethnal Green, but when he awoke to his father dragging him onto the platform by his sleeve a few minutes later, he knew they had not been traveling long enough to reach the capital. He frowned when he read the single word on the station sign, his confusion only deepening with the discovery that they had disembarked in a strange village he didn't recall ever having heard mention of.

He trailed behind, gripping the bag with the clock tightly to him as they walked into the cold darkness and the rushing wind and the blowing rain, through the village and beyond, up the hill towards the darkened castle that seemed to burst terrifyingly from the ground before them. And still his father refused to speak.

They approached the manor house from the back, crossing through a courtyard to a door that Thomas imagined from a book he had once read must be the servants' entrance. And finally his father spoke.

"Stand right here," he said, shoving him roughly against the wall several feet from the doorway. "And don't say a word. Not a word." He jabbed his finger toward the boy's face, as the words were pushed through his hard-set lips.

Thomas hugged the clock to his chest as his father walked determinedly to the door and pounded on it with an unexpected ferocity. Several minutes passed before the door was opened by a rather put-out, but generally amiable housemaid, whose strange foreign accent trilled and danced between raindrops and across the courtyard, bouncing atop the cobblestones and buffeting against the brick walls.

He listened as his father exchanged inane pleasantries with the woman, before the actual purpose of their visit was revealed. Thomas tried to focus on their words, but nothing they were saying seemed to make any sense to him. His father, hat in hand, kept talking in sympathetic tones about a poor orphaned neighbor boy who needed a job, a place in life to get him started.

"I expect the Abbey could always use another hall boy or a stablehand," he said.

"It's not my decision," the maid said plainly. "He'll have to come back when the family has returned from the season in London. Mr. Carson can give him a decision at that time."

"I understand, Miss," his father said, "but, what's to become of the boy between now and then? Where will he go?"

The woman sighed heavily and leaned out into the rain to eye Thomas where he was slouched against the wall.

"But, surely he is too young to go into service," she said with a start.

In that moment, a sudden realization of the situation overtook Thomas, and he rushed to intervene.

"Father, why are you doing this?" he cried. "I can help with the shop. This isn't what Mom would want."

He never saw the hand, but he felt the blow as it sent him reeling to the wet, cobblestoned floor. He instinctively wrapped his body around his mother's clock to protect it as he fell. And then the tears came. It was the first time Thomas had ever been struck.

"We'll take him," the maid shouted as she rushed out into the rain and scrambled to help Thomas to his feet.

Standing in the downpour, while his father looked on impassively, a middle-aged Scottish housemaid pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dried his eyes, and with more genuine compassion than Thomas had received since his mother died, asked the one question that no one else had bothered to ask, "Are you alright?"

Thomas, swimming in shame and grief could only clutch at his bag and nod his head.

"What's your name, lad?" she asked quietly, as she took his chin gently in her hand and glared defiantly past his shoulder towards his father. Thomas stuttered out his answer.

"Alright then, Thomas," she nearly whispered, "it's very nice to meet you. I'm Elsie Hughes, the head housemaid here. What say we get you inside and get some breakfast, shall we?"

Thomas glanced hopefully to his father one last time, but the old man refused to meet his eyes.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," Miss Hughes said in clipped tones, turning her back on the old man as she led Thomas by the shoulders into the house, "I believe we will be fine from here." And she resolutely slammed the door.

There were intense, hushed conversations throughout the day between Miss Hughes and the housekeeper, an overly-verbose, bird-like woman named Mrs. Stephens, who would occasionally burst into a fit of uncontrollable coughing just when she appeared to be finally reaching the point she was attempting to make. Thomas knew instinctively that these conversations were about him, but as the day wore on and they continued to feed him and ask him to complete small tasks, Thomas grew a bit more secure in their acceptance of him. That night, after one of the older boys had shown him where he was to sleep, he reverently unpacked the clock and placed it delicately on the little table near his bed. It was 12:18 and Thomas was no longer anyone's son.

The conversations that took place a few weeks later, on the day Mr. Carson returned to the Abbey, were considerably more intense, and not at all hushed. Carson's bellowing about a head housemaid overstepping her bounds and a housekeeper who "should certainly know by this point in her career how to say no to one of her girls" echoed throughout the corridors below stairs for what seemed like an age.

Thomas collected the clock and sat cross-legged on the floor outside Carson's pantry, preparing himself for the ejection, the rejection, that was sure to come. He listened to the man rant about his youth, small stature, and relative inability to do much of the physical labor that might be expected of a hall boy. And about presumptuous housemaids taking in stray dogs and children.

"This is not an orphanage, Elsie."

"Surely, you're not suggesting that we should see the lad in an orphanage? Really, Mr. Carson, I would have thought … Well, you've read Dickens."

"Now, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Stephens began, "Be that as it may, and things being just as they are, I'm sure that what Elsie means to say..." Whatever the housekeeper's interpretation of what Elsie meant to say may have been, it was lost in another bout of wet hacking.

"I know very well what Elsie means to say, Mrs. Stephens, and I will remind you both again that this household is not, strictly speaking, a charity."

"But, surely we can all show charity to our fellow man, or boy, when called for."

"I don't even know why I am continuing this discussion with you. Clearly, the retention of hall boys falls entirely under my purview and I have given you my decision."

"Mr. Carson, certainly I appreciate your authority in this matter, but if you had seen how the boy's own father treated him …" Her voice trailed off, until Thomas could just barely hear the steady hiss of her whispered tones carrying through the door.

"Oh, very well," Carson finally sighed. "I cannot fight this battle all day. But I warn you, Elsie, standards will be maintained. If he somehow does anything to discredit or embarrass Downton or the family in any way..."

"Oh, Mr. Carson," Miss Hughes said, not even bothering to mask her exasperation, "he's just a boy. What do you think he's going to do, mount a revolution?"

"I suspect that even Guy Fawkes was once just a boy."

It would be more than three years before Mrs. Hughes was officially named housekeeper, although by that time the title was the only part of the role she would not have already absorbed. As Thomas sat in the corridor that afternoon listening to the butler succumb to the arguments of a head housemaid, it became clear even to his young ears that she already had the man wrapped solidly around her finger. In years to come, experience would confirm for Thomas that there was very little of import that a sufficiently motivated Mrs. Hughes could not convince Mr. Carson to do.

* * *

After a restless half-hour spent reclining atop his blankets fully dressed, Thomas reached the conclusion that he might just as easily await daybreak in the kitchen with a cup of tea. As he struggled to negotiate the stairs, crutches in hand, he attempted to beat back the discomfiting feeling of anxiety that was swelling within his chest as he reviewed the events of the previous days. Had it really only been two full days since the police had arrived to arrest Anna? It seemed almost a lifetime ago.

Mrs. Carson's behavior the night before had been particularly unnerving. The woman had, wholly uncharacteristically, spent the entire evening practically clinging to him. She had even forced the housemaid, Molly, to deliver her notice with Thomas in the room, a completely unprecedented action that she attempted to explain away by saying that, as under-butler, Thomas was fully entitled to participate in discussions of staffing matters. That daffy girl might have fallen for that bizarre explanation, but Thomas knew better.

And then there was this whole business with Molesley parked outside Carson's bedroom door all evening. Naturally, Thomas asked him what he was about, only to have Molesley tell him that Carson had ordered him to sit watch. Sit watch? Over what? For what reason? And Molesley, of all people? There was not one part of the entire scenario that made a bit of sense. And Molesley himself was, perhaps unsurprisingly, totally incapable of shedding any light on the matter.

In the kitchen, Thomas discovered Mrs. Patmore stood on a stool wiping out the interior of a high cabinet. For the most part, the kitchen had been returned to its normal state, following the previous day's debacle over the missing knife, but it seemed the cook was taking advantage of the disruption to work in some deep cleaning.

"Mrs. Patmore, you're up and about early this morning. Has a biscuit cutter gone missing that we should know about? Perhaps a gift from a distant cousin disappeared off to America?"

Mrs. Patmore started and turned to him with her mouth hanging open as if to respond, but quickly chose the alternative course of pursing her lips and glaring at him with what might only be described as mild contempt. Thomas snickered.

"I wouldn't expect the likes of you to understand such sentimentality," she said, turning back to the cabinet.

"You might be surprised at just what I would understand, Mrs. Patmore," Thomas said as he crossed the room to fill the kettle and put it on to boil.

"Yes, well, I won't be holding my breath for any such revelations."

"No, I wouldn't recommend that you do," he smirked.

Thomas spent a few moments hobbling about the room, securing himself a cup and preparing the tea for wetting, before returning to the conversation.

"I understand the knife has been returned, then?" he asked lowly.

"Yes, but the way it was returned still leaves a bitter taste, if you know what I mean," she said reaching deeply into the cabinet.

Thomas wrinkled his brow. Actually, he didn't know what she meant at all.

"The way it was returned? And how was that?"

"You don't know?" she asked turning to him abruptly. "No, I see you don't."

Dropping her cleaning rag, she reached down to wipe her hands across her apron before stepping down from the stool.

"Someone," she began dramatically, "stuck the knife into the table in the servants' hall, right in front of Mrs. Carson's place at the table."

"They what?" Thomas felt his brows climb towards his hairline.

"Drove it right into the tabletop. Must 'ave been a might determined too," she said. "It was in there deep. Took a good bit of effort for Mr. Carson to pull it out. A real feat of strength, I suppose."

Thomas found himself speechless.

"Seems Mr. Carson was beside himself over the whole thing," Mrs. Patmore said, leaning in towards him conspiratorially. "Viewed it as a threat against Mrs. Carson's safety, I believe."

"I should say," Thomas muttered, much to Mrs. Patmore's obvious surprise.

Well, perhaps this explained all that oddness surrounding Molesley, Thomas thought. The girl was clearly insane. She could not be gone too soon.

As if on cue, the sounds of something heavy being dragged down the stairs echoed down the corridor and into the kitchen. Thomas leaned out into the hall just in time to see Molly heft a case off the bottom step and begin wrestling it toward the backdoor.

"Oh good, Molly," Thomas called with false cheer. "Up and out bright and early, I see. We certainly wouldn't want to hold you back from whatever fresh future you have in store."

"Don't think either you or this house have seen the last of me," she spat out, dropping her case to the floor in front of him. "I will be back."

"We'll make sure to double check the locks are secure, in that case."

"You think you're quite clever, don't you?"

"I couldn't say, Molly. I think I'll just leave it to others to assess my cleverness."

Mrs. Patmore bleated out a monosyllabic laugh.

"Everyone knows what you are, Mr. Barrow," Molly said. "Don't think I will stop short of using whatever information has been made available to me, in any way I see fit."

"I think you will soon discover that everyone knows just what you are as well," Thomas drawled. "Interestingly, you are the one leaving today, while my place would appear to be secure."

"For now."

"Yes, for now," he smirked. "Tell me, everything in that case does actually belong to you, doesn't it? We wouldn't want you to have to make a special trip to return anything to, say, the housekeeper."

"I don't have to listen to this," she snapped, snatching her case up and turning violently to leave.

"No, no, you don't, but, Molly," he called to her back. She stopped and waited for him to continue. This one was just too easy to goad. "Do make sure you close the door securely on your way out. It sounds like it's raining quite hard out there. We wouldn't want anyone remaining in the house to have to deal with that damp."

Thomas laughingly wondered that none of the family were awakened by the sound of the door slamming seconds later.

"And just what was that about?" Mrs. Patmore asked.

"Just another young housemaid leaving in search of a better life, I suppose," Thomas said with a shrug, hobbling towards the now boiling kettle. "Tea, Mrs. Patmore?"

She eyed him suspiciously and took her time before answering.

"Alright."


	14. Mr Black in the Boot Room

Carson awoke to the feeling of a comforting warmth draped across his chest. Elsie had fallen into a deep slumber almost immediately after resting her head on his shoulder the night before. While a part of him – perhaps several parts of him – might have wished that the evening would have given way to greater intimacies, his heart sang with the joy of simply having her this close, resting contentedly in his arms.

For the first time in his life he found himself harboring envy for shopkeepers and factory workers, those men whose work days might begin well after daybreak and end before dinner, who might have entire weekends free to love their wives. There was a time when he could not have imagined what he might have done with such unoccupied time. Now he thought he knew precisely what he would do with every spare moment. Spare moments. What a concept. There were no spare moments in service, not really. A servant's every moment was due and owing to his employers.

It wasn't long before he felt her stirring beside him. He tucked his chin to look down at her and found that she was gazing up at him.

"Good morning," she whispered.

"Yes, I think it is," he smiled, stretching his neck to kiss the top of her head. "How did you sleep?" In spite of the fact that they had already been sharing a room for several days, he still held some niggling fear that in such close proximity his snoring or some other unknown habit might disturb her rest and cause her some latent annoyance with him. Knowing himself perfectly capable of irritating her during his waking hours, the last thing he wanted to do was irritate her while asleep and wholly unaware.

"It was wonderful," she said. Her voice had taken on a certain dreamlike quality that he wouldn't have thought her capable of projecting had he not heard it for himself. He liked it, and was more than a bit pleased with himself at the thought of perhaps having inspired this new tone.

"And you?" She asked, shifting awkwardly to stretch across his chest so as not to lose physical contact with him. "How was your night?"

"Oh, I'd say it was adequate," he smirked.

She looked up at him with a start before narrowing her eyes.

"Adequate, indeed," she said. And then she laughed, a real genuine laugh. He thought he might like to hear that laugh every morning for the rest of his life.

"Six o'clock," Lily's voice rang out as she knocked on the door. Not another spare moment.

As Elsie rose to call out her accustomed thanks to the girl, her head collided harshly with her husband's nose, which was being propelled downwards by his attempt to plant just one last kiss in her hair. Carson cried out in alarm and lurched backward. The pain of the blow was sharp and immediate. He sat up quickly, cupping his nose with his hands, and shutting his eyes tightly to fight back the tears that had immediately pricked behind the surface.

"Oh dear, Charles, let me see. Are you badly hurt?" She spoke so softly, so hesitantly that he nearly missed her words altogether.

After a moment's reluctance, she reached up and gently pulled his hand away only to discover that it had filled with a pool of blood. A look of pure panic washed across her face.

"Oh, Charles, here lie back down and I'll get you a flannel." She pushed at his shoulders trying to force his head back onto the pillow.

"It's fine, it's fine. Don't fuss," he mumbled, nudging her hands away and working to keep the irritation out of his voice. He stood slowly and stumbled toward the dressing room. The pain was dissipating, but it was definitely still present.

He settled on his back on the hard dressing room floor, holding a flannel to his nose and breathing deeply through his mouth to calm the feelings of panic that had welled up in his chest.

"Charles," she called tentatively as she came to hover in the doorway from the bedroom, "is there really nothing I can do to help?" He thought perhaps he heard a catch in her voice, just the hint of tears.

"It's fine. I'm fine," he said flatly, but he wondered if he was fine at all. It seemed in that moment that a nosebleed might be the least of his issues.

She hesitantly stepped around him and began to gather her clothes for the day before retreating to the bedroom to dress. He closed his eyes and groaned, trying with only moderate success to staunch the flow of images his mind conjured of his wife pulling on stockings, fastening her corset, brushing out her hair.

Once he felt the bleeding had well and truly stopped, he rushed to dress as quickly as possible, and exited the room tie in hand and still working his collar into place. He encountered Andrew in the hall and ordered the young man, rather gruffly, to wait outside the door for Mrs. Carson and escort her downstairs, that odd incident with the knife still weighing heavily on his mind as it was. Andrew opened his mouth as if to question this odd directive, but was silenced before he began by the sight of the butler clutching his reddened nose and glaring from beneath beetled brows.

"Charles, you've forgotten...," she called from the doorway. He fled down the stairs pretending he didn't hear. It wasn't until he reached his pantry that he realized that he was in his stocking feet. He waited until he heard her voice in the hall before stealing back to their rooms to retrieve his shoes.

* * *

Carson returned from the breakfast service anxious to retreat to the relative quiet of his pantry and address the stack of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk during the distractions of the past several days. In spite of the debacle that had erupted in their bedroom that morning, or perhaps because of the debacle, Carson had discovered within him a new determination to expedite completion his day's tasks in hopes of enjoying a distraction-free evening with his wife.

His plans were thwarted, however, with the discovery that Barrow had taken up residence in his office and was already well into the task of digging through another of Smythe's cases. Eying the under-butler, he measured his irritation with the situation and attempted to formulate the most appropriate response to the man's continued existence. Failing miserably in his endeavor to find a rational excuse to eject him after having agreed to the plan that brought him there to begin with, Carson decided that his best course of action would be to take his papers and books and retreat elsewhere to work.

He ensconced himself in the boot room, finding it the only room below stairs that was at the moment unoccupied, and closed the door in hopes of discouraging visitors. His hopes were shortly dashed.

"Ah, here you are," Mrs. Carson said breezily as she entered the room less than half an hour later. "Andrew said I might find you in here, but I admit I thought he must have been mistaken."

She closed the door and stood across the table from where he was sat, sipping from a cup of tea as if waiting for him to explain himself.

"Yes, my pantry was otherwise occupied so I thought I might find a quiet spot to get through some of this paperwork."

"I see," she smiled. "Still, quite an unusual spot."

"Yes, quite, I suppose," he said, returning his eyes to the books in front of him.

An awkward silence seemed to stretch out around them as each waited for the other to speak.

"Would you like a cup?" she asked, raising her own to her lips as if to demonstrate the concept. "I could just have Lily – "

"No, thank you. I am fine," he answered without meeting her eyes.

"Are you fine? How is your nose?"

"It is fine, thank you."

"Only, you seemed rather upset when you left this morning and I – "

"Mrs. Carson, I would think that you might also have work that you should be doing at ten o'clock on a Friday morning, rather than standing here preventing me from doing my own."

He knew as soon as they were out that his words had been far harsher than he intended, but there was no room for backing away now.

"I see," she whispered, pursing her lips and glancing nervously towards the corners of the room. "I rather thought we had gotten beyond all this."

"Gotten beyond what?" he asked with a start. "Beyond doing our work? Beyond maintaining standards of discipline and decorum?"

"Of course not. I thought we were beyond this dance between us, this pushing and pulling that we do."

Carson's brows raised in confusion.

"I don't know what you mean."

"No, you wouldn't," she sighed. She looked so sad, so utterly defeated in that moment that he almost gave in. He wanted nothing more than to press her to his chest and alleviate whatever doubts she may have been constructing, but there was work to be done and that, for now, meant keeping his distance.

"Mrs. Carson, please don't read too much into what I am saying. I simply mean to say that –"

"No, no," she interrupted, chewing at her lip and presenting him with a distracted flourish of her hand. "I imagine I've pushed you too far, towards intimacies you weren't prepared for, perhaps weren't interested in."

"What? Certainly not," he heard himself beginning to bluster, but her suggestion was simply absurd. "You have done no such thing. I assure you I am quite interested in … " He faltered, couldn't even imagine how to complete that sentence.

She smiled then. It was a small, sad smile, but at least it was a smile.

"Well then, go on, what is troubling you?"

He watched her for a moment. He wasn't certain that this was the best time to have this conversation, that he was at all prepared for this, but he thought avoiding it at this point would most likely cause more trouble than the delay was worth.

"All of this," he sighed and gestured toward the door. "I have fallen dreadfully behind and the management of the house is suffering. Somehow, I keep getting pulled into this whole issue with Smythe and the nanny and Anna. Of course I want to see Anna free, immediately, but I don't see what I have to particularly contribute there. And yet, here is Barrow camped out in my pantry, and then there is this whole matter with Bates. And you're bringing me tea in the middle of the day and we're strolling about in the garden when I should be attending to my books. It's all become too close, too personal."

She eyed him steadily over her cup as she continued to sip her tea.

"I admit, I'm a bit confused by all of this, Charles." She ignored his wince at the sound of his given name. "Just yesterday, you stood in your pantry and invited me to kiss you, as you put it, at anytime at all. Prior to that, you were in the servants' hall, offering, rather loudly I might add, unsolicited advice to Mr. Bates, telling him to take Anna away to keep her safe."

"And I was wrong. I freely admit it. I spoke out of turn. It is not my place to interfere or attempt to exert influence in personal matters that naturally fall with Mr. Bates and his wife."

"At times it's necessary to put aside prescript and propriety to care for people, Mr. Carson." Her voice was low, her tone tinged with a heavy sense of sorrow, resignation. And that, the idea that he may have finally driven the fight from her, that she might actually be willing to give up and accept whatever nonsense that he was prepared to offer, scared him more than anything else. Perhaps, he thought, there was naught to do but listen to her, abide her words really, when hers had long since become the voice of his conscience.

"Mr. Carson, the Abbey is not simply our place of work. It is our home. We all live here together. We are bound to form attachments, friendships, expectations."

"Exactly. This is exactly the point." He looked to her expectantly then, hopeful that perhaps she was finally grasping the issues that he was having such difficulty reducing to words. "As you say, this is both our work and our home. One concept relies so heavily on the other, it is hard to say where one begins and one ends, but in order for me to be effective in the execution of my work, I need …" What did he need? "Without clean lines of demarcation between our personal and professional lives, I find that I am unable to focus my attentions properly on fulfilling my day-to-day responsibilities."

Yes, that was it. Surely, that was it.

"You have never had this trouble of focus before, have you?"

"I have never before found myself...," he glanced towards his feet, grappling with just how he could complete that thought. "I have never before allowed myself to struggle with the distractions of … personal affections."

She eyed him archly and suddenly he knew what was coming next.

"It seems that it is only when you feel such affections towards staff that you have this difficulty. Feelings of tenderness towards select members of your employer's family, on the other hand, are apparently no distraction at all."

"An attachment to any member of the family only serves to enhance our quality of service. And the family knows how to maintain appropriate boundaries."

She raised an eyebrow at this. He thought for a moment that he had best stop, but he couldn't. He had to make her see, had to bring her to his side.

"We, all of us, serve at the pleasure of the Crawley family. Loyalty and devotion to the family are the hallmarks of a good servant. They are traits to be admired and rewarded."

"Yes, of course," her voice dripped with sarcasm. "And any slight interest paid anyone else is simply a distraction from this, your higher calling. Or perhaps it is simply a matter of the rest of us not knowing our appropriate boundaries with the butler."

Carson shook his head. Slight interest? Is that really what she thought he felt? He spared a moment to wonder how it could be that they always seemed to be talking at cross-purposes regarding this single issue, when in all other aspects of their lives she seemed to so easily anticipate his every need. When a small, niggling voice cried to him from a distance that perhaps it was because this was the only area in which she might have needs of her own, he pushed it aside for consideration at another time.

"Please try and understand," he implored. "This is not simply a matter – "

"You think I don't try and understand? I have spent the better part of two decades trying to understand you."

"I know that. Believe me, I know that, but this has always been so much easier for you than – "

He was cut off by her angry little laugh.

"Mr. Carson, I can assure you, if there is one thing this (she gestured back and forth between them with her hand) has not been for me it is easy."

He took a deep, ragged breath and looked at her. His wife. How had they gotten to this point? Here she was doing nothing more or less than offering him every single thing he could never find the courage to ask of her, and he just couldn't seem to stop himself from pushing. Pushing her away. Pushing it all away.

"I realize that I have never made things easy between us, easy for you, but in your role as..."

Just then there was a knock at the door, followed quite closely by the entrance into the room of Mr. Molesley's head.

"Mr. Carson, you're wanted upstairs in the drawing room."

"The drawing room? At this time of day? Was her ladyship expecting anyone?" Mrs. Carson asked.

And there it was again. She was effortlessly stepping right from a deeply personal and emotionally charged conversation into professional considerations about their employers and protocol, while he lagged hopelessly behind. He ran a hand across his head. Whatever the circumstance, it seemed he always lagged behind her. Perhaps all he was looking for was the strength, the courage to catch up. Or maybe she might just hang back for once. But, then, wasn't he always asking her to hang back?

"What? Ah, no, not that I'm aware," Carson muttered with a shake of his head as he stood to answer the call.

"No," Molesley said, "a lady came to the front door asking for you, Mr. Carson. Her ladyship and Lady Mary were in the hall at the time. They insisted that I see her through to the drawing room and fetch you. And tea."

"A lady?" Carson asked tugging at his waistcoat with a frown. "Did she not give you her name?"

"Oh, yes," Molesley said, furrowing his brow to conjure the memory. "Miss Neale. She said her name was Miss Neale."

All the air suddenly left the room. Carson barely registered the sound of Mrs. Carson's tea cup crashing to the stone floor as he dropped breathless back onto the stool.

"Oh, Mrs. Carson, are you injured? Here, let me help you clean that up," Molesley bumbled into the room as if prepared to sweep the tea and shards up with his bare hands.

"Leave it," Mrs. Carson snapped, stepping over the growing puddle. Molesley withered as if he had been struck. He hovered in the door, clearly awaiting some sort of acknowledgment of the slight against him, some soothing of his ego. His wait would not be rewarded.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley, that will be all," Mrs. Carson said in clipped tones, ushering him out the door and snapping it shut behind.

Carson continued to focus his gaze on a distinct spot on the wall just above the baseboard, while all around him seemed to spin. He told himself to remember to breathe, not to shake apart.

"Mr. Carson?" She approached him cautiously. "Charles, can you hear me?"

He glanced up to find her watching him, worrying her lip. Clearly worrying over him.

"Of course," he said with a shake of his head. "I was just a bit stunned."

He stood and straightened his jacket as he strode towards the door. He hoped he was successfully portraying an air of calm confidence well beyond the meagre and dwindling supply he actually felt in considering this situation. Her ladyship, Lady Mary, and Miss Neale – Miss Neale? – were gathered in the drawing room, preparing to share tea and awaiting his arrival. How had this happened? Carson wasn't certain he could imagine a scenario much worse than this.

"I'm coming with you," Elsie said plainly. Ah, there it was: a worse scenario.

He turned to her with a start and tried to measure out the best response to this suggestion. It wasn't so much that he didn't want her there, he reasoned to himself. Oh, but he wasn't so sure that he did want her there either. This whole path seemed destined to grow only more treacherous. And if nothing else, she had not been summoned by her ladyship.

"You … What? I'm not certain …"

"You say you want a – what did you call it? A clean line of demarcation? Very well, here you have it." She paused and looked to him with an affect of calm, but her eyes seemed to blaze. "Miss Neale has not come to Downton to call on the butler. She is here to see my husband. I will be joining you upstairs."

Good Lord, she could be fierce. Carson looked down into the eyes of his wife and found himself, once again, in awe. He still felt a tad unsteady, but in spite of it all, she was here. With him. And in that moment, it was both enough and not nearly enough at all, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He reached for her hand.

"Alright."


	15. The Shillelagh

Thomas had discovered, perhaps unsurprisingly, that there was a certain amount of satisfaction to be gained in digging through a stranger's personal effects in search of secrets. He went to the butler's pantry just as the morning bells began to ring, uncharacteristically cheerful in his anticipation of another day to be spent plowing through oddities and incriminations. Positioning himself in one of the armchairs, he reached to continue the task of perusing the detritus of the life of one Harold Smythe. If nothing else came of it, at least it was something to do, a break from the monotony.

About an hour later, just as he was digging through a case brimming with seemingly unrelated newspaper clippings, Thomas looked up to see Carson enter the room. The butler caught sight of Thomas and came to a halt just as he passed through the door. Carson stood blinking at Thomas for what seemed an age, wearing an expression of mild disdain and utter disappointment, he appeared to be ruminating on possible plans to have Thomas removed from the room, if not the planet entirely.

After several moments spent in motionless reflection, Carson suddenly turned on his heal and bolted back out the door, only to return just as quickly a few moments later and begin sweeping stacks of papers and ledger books off of his desk and up into his arms.

"I shall be in the boot room, should anyone need me," the old man said, feigning an air of confident pride and superiority. As if the butler fleeing his pantry to attend to bookwork whilst balanced precariously on a stool in the boot room was a commendable event. Thomas rolled his eyes. He wasn't much looking forward to the company himself. Unfortunately, he didn't have the option of retreating to the linen closet or some equally ridiculous locale if and when company did drop in.

Shortly after this most recent display of Carson's continued descent into madness, Thomas received the company he did not seek when Bates tottered into the room and dropped his body into the other armchair. Thomas noted the man was breathing heavily, annoyingly so, but he thought he would not likely achieve much success with a demand that the man cease his bothersome respiration altogether, no matter how appealing the idea may have been.

"Anything interesting?" Bates gasped as he settled back and dragged a suitcase around in front of him.

"Not so's I've found." At that moment, Thomas reached into the bottom of the case he had been focused on to lift out a short stick with a heavy knob at one end out of the case. He looked to Bates with raised brows and gestured towards him with the item.

"A shillelagh," Bates observed with a wan smile.

"I'm about to go upstairs and play with the children," Lily said from the door. "Mrs. Patmore wanted me to check if you gents need anything before I go, seeing as she'll be a bit shorthanded for the time."

"No, I think we're fine here, Lily. If we need anything from the kitchens, I think Mr. Barrow and I can find it ourselves."

"I think that might be just what she was trying to avoid," Lily giggled as she stepped further into the pantry. "So, do you think that's the murder weapon," she asked nodding wide-eyed towards the stick in Thomas's hand.

Thomas snickered.

"No. Mr. Smythe has apparently not been back to his things since the killing. If he murdered the nanny, he's disposed of the weapon elsewhere."

"Or it's still with him," she said pursing her lips thoughtfully before flouncing out of the room.

"There does seem to be something dark and sticky here on the surface of it, perhaps blood," Thomas said turning, holding the object up to twist it in the light.

"Well, the purpose of a shillelagh is defense. They are generally used to fight."

"Bloody Irish," Thomas mumbled.

"Yes, bloody Irish," Bates deadpanned.

Thomas realized a moment later what he had said. He had a fleeting thought that the sociable thing to do would be to apologize for any slight to Bates's family. Thomas did not apologize.

"And when will you be allowed to see Anna again?" Thomas quietly changed the subject after a brief pause.

"Tuesday," Bates sighed. "I can visit on Tuesday."

"I would hope she would be out of that place before then," he muttered.

"Well, Mr. Barrow, is it possible that the heart that beats in your chest is not quite as dark as we all imagine it to be?"

"Anything's possible," Thomas smirked, "but I wouldn't count on it."

"No, I don't suppose that I will," Bates laughed.

When Molesley came to the parlor to relay the message that his ladyship wanted Carson upstairs, Thomas sent him on to the boot room.

"The boot room?"

"That would be what I said, Mr. Molesley. You will find Mr. Carson in the boot room."

"Why ever would he be in the boot room?" Molesley asked, brow furrowed as if he were considering one of the greater mysteries of the universe.

"Well, I'm sure I couldn't say, but if you were to step down the hallway, you might ask him for yourself." Thomas rolled his eyes as he pulled another envelope from the chest in front of him.

He was soon flipping distractedly through yet another stack of photos. Who in the world has this many photographs? Thomas thought. Many of this stack seemed to be shots of various men in different hotel rooms actively engaged in what one might call compromising activities with a woman. On close inspection, it appeared to be the same woman in each of the pictures; it appeared to be Nanny Jenkins.

Obviously, Thomas thought, these photos were intended fodder for blackmail and he wondered how he might go about determining just who these men were. Not that he was strictly interested in blackmail for direct monetary gain, mind. That was far too risky, far too gauche for his tastes. Still, it never hurt to have information that others might not wish cast about. Silence was, in certain circles at least, a commodity after all.

As Thomas reached the bottom of the pile, his eyes came to rest on a photo that struck him as being eerily familiar. He didn't immediately recognize the subject, but something about this picture tugged at his memory. What was it exactly? He replaced the other photos in their envelope and sat back in his chair to study this one more intently.

"What have you got there?" Bates leaned over to get a closer look as Thomas distractedly held the picture out to him. They glanced back and forth between each other and the photo for several seconds before recognition seemed to dawn for them both just as they heard Carson's footfalls echoing down the hall.

"Mr. Carson," Thomas called out, struggling to get his crutches under him and get to his feet while Bates limped his way to the door. "Mr. Carson, wait!"

Thomas rushed into the hallway right behind Bates. Carson and Mrs. Carson were standing frozen on the stairs wearing mirrored expressions of shock and mild outrage.

"Mr. Carson is wanted upstairs," Mrs. Carson said in clipped tones.

"I understand that, but I think you'll want to see this."

Carson eyed him with a dark skepticism.

"Whatever you have to show me can certainly wait until – "

"No, Mr. Carson, I'm not entirely certain it can," Bates interrupted. "I think you might want to see this sooner rather than later."

Carson glanced nervously from Thomas to Bates before turning to his wife, who offered him a vague shrug and gestured toward his pantry.

"Very well," Carson sighed turning to walk down the corridor, "but we'd best be quick about it."

Thomas ushered them all into the room before turning to shut the door. He moved toward the front of the desk, which Carson had come to stand behind, and tentatively stretched over its surface to silently hold the photograph out to him.

"Where did you get this?" Carson snapped, snatching the picture from Thomas's hand. "Have you been – "

"It was in Smythe's things," Bates said lowly. "Mr. Barrow found it in Smythe's things."

"In Smythe's things?" Mrs. Carson asked with an anxious glance from her husband to the picture in his hand. "This photograph was in Mr. Smythe's things?"

Carson collapsed backward into his chair as if stunned. After a moment, he reached to pull open a drawer. Pushing his hand to the bottom, he came out with the now lightly-tarnished silver frame that Thomas was certain had graced this very desktop a few years earlier. Laying the frame flat in front of him, Carson aligned the loose picture precisely next to it. Thomas, Bates, and Mrs. Carson all moved perceptibly towards the desk to observe the comparison. The two photographs were identical.

A heavy tension fell on the room as the four occupants did little more than blink back and forth at one another. Unspoken and unanswered questions swirled about in the air until Thomas finally broke the silence.

"What the hell is going on here?" he nearly whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

Carson roared back to life. "I would very much like to know the answer to that question myself, Mr. Barrow," he bellowed as he leapt to his feet.

"There's no use shouting at Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Carson said. "Whatever's happened, it has naught to do with him."

"What?" Carson looked to her with a start before the meaning of her words took hold. "Of course. I do apologize." He mumbled this last bit as he fell back into the chair. Resting his head in his hands, he stared at the two photographs in front of him and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

"I simply cannot fathom it," he uttered continuing to shake his head. "I simply cannot."

"Mr. Carson," Mrs. Carson murmured encouragingly as she leaned into her husband, "perhaps it would be best if we went upstairs and got some answers."

He looked up at her sharply, and then his expression dissolved into one of apprehensive resignation.

"Alright."


	16. Miss Silver in the Drawing Room

Carson followed his wife up the stairs reminding himself to breathe. Glancing down at his hands, he found that they were shaking. He tried to rationalize why he could be so nervous. Whatever was about to happen here could only possibly have a minimal impact on his life. Right? He just needed to pull himself together, or so he told himself.

As Mrs. Carson reached to push open the door, he suddenly realized that he had something he needed to do first. Something he needed to say first.

"Wait," he called out. It wasn't until she turned to him in shock that he realized perhaps he had spoken a bit louder than he intended. A good bit louder. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the feeling of his heartbeat pulsing through his head.

"I need a moment." She smiled at him, a smile that went beyond sympathy, but only just. He slowly reached down and took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and lifted them to his lips.

"Mr. Carson," she teased, "weren't we just discussing a separation of private and work lives, and yet here you are kissing your wife at the top of the stairs?"

"My wife very wisely told me that we were stepping onto the other side of the line of demarcation."

"Yes, I suppose she did."

"Elsie, I need you to know … I mean to say I don't want to walk away from that conversation without you understanding..." He unconsciously licked his lips and tried to fight back the tears. Why did it seem he was always on the verge of falling apart like some homesick housemaid these days?

"Yes?"

She was gazing at him with such a compassionate, open expression that he suddenly felt any words of his might be wholly inadequate. When he looked into her eyes, he found that his voice had abandoned him, so he focused instead on their clasped hands and the words rushed across them both like wildfire.

"There are some issues that I find myself struggling with of late, but I need you to know the one thing I don't struggle with, the one subject I've no questions about is you, my feelings for you. I love you. I need you to know that. I don't want to have given you any doubts about that."

He gathered the courage to look at her then and found her eyes glimmering with moisture. Her lips turned up at the edges into a small, shy smile as she pressed her free hand to her chest and shook her head.

"Oh, Charles," she said, reaching up to lay a palm against his cheek, "I do know that. Perhaps I've not always been as confident of it, but I do know."

He felt his heartbeat begin to calm, his breathing begin to steady.

"You're sure?"

She nodded. "But, I shall never tire of hearing you say it."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," he said as he leaned over to place a chaste kiss on her lips.

"Now," she said, running her hand down his face to pat him on the chest, "shall we go see what Miss Neale has in store for us? She and Lady Mary have been in the same room far too long for my tastes."

"Oh, good heavens."

They reached together to push the door open with their clasped hands, and then dropped them immediately to cross the hall. Molesley was pulling the door shut behind him as they approached the drawing room.

"Oh good, Mr. Carson, Lady Mary just sent me to check on you. Seems she was a bit worried that you didn't beat the tea here, as it were."

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," Carson said dismissively as he pushed the door open.

Carson took two steps into the drawing room and came to an abrupt halt, forcing Mrs. Carson to step around him to take up a position standing by his side. In an instant, his eyes took in the room.

Lady Grantham and Lady Mary were seated side-by-side on the sofa. Behind them, looking out the window with her back to the room, stood a woman in a long silver-colored gown. It had been a fine dress once, perhaps even of a sort that the dowager might have worn before the war. But upon just casual inspection, the edges of the material appeared frayed and worn. And even Carson could tell the design was many years out of style. She wore a large hat, also of a style the ladies had worn years before, a tumble of grey and silver curls peaking from under the edges.

But this wasn't Alice. At least not as he remembered. He frowned. Alice was shorter, shapelier. This woman was taller, thinner, almost angular.

Recognition struck when she turned to face him.

"Lillian," he breathed. He instantly shut his eyes tightly at the moment he felt Mrs. Carson tense beside him.

"Hello, Charlie. It's so good to see you." And the way she smiled, there was no doubt she was telling the truth.

Carson was overtaken by a rush of swirling emotions accelerating over one another so that he could scarcely identify any individual feeling aside from a generalized sense of discomfort.

"Oh, good, Carson … and Mrs. Carson. You're both here," Lady Mary said, making no effort to hide her surprised delight at the housekeeper's unanticipated decision to join the fray. "Miss Neale was just regaling us with stories of your time together on the stage, Carson."

Oh, good Lord. And so it began.

"And here I thought Granny's adventures with the Russian prince were captivating. This is downright thrilling. Who knew that even Carson had a past?"

"Oh, Mary, stop," Lady Grantham said. "You're embarrassing the man. Do come in you two, and try to make yourselves comfortable. Miss Neale is here to visit with you after all."

Neither of them stepped from their positions by the door.

"Mama, this is not just a man. This is Carson. Surely these revelations beg a good many questions."

"And I am sure that if Carson wishes to share those answers with you, he will do so in his own time," Lady Grantham said, rising from her seat and brushing out her skirts. "Come, Mary, let's leave them to it. I'm sure they have a good deal of catching up to do, and Cousin Isobel is expecting me shortly. Are you sure you don't wish to come along?"

"No, give her my regards," Lady Mary said, standing and following her mother towards the door. "I need to review some accounts before my meeting this afternoon."

"Very well. Carson, you stay here and use the room for as long as you need."

The suggestion stunned Carson out of his brooding.

"That's not necessary, m'lady. We can just go – "

"Carson," Lady Mary whispered as she came to a stop beside him, "whatever this is about, surely you don't want to take it below stairs. Use the room."

And she was right. As hard as he searched in that moment to find a way to maintain the standards of behavior to which he had dedicated his life, the potential for risk simply seemed too great. He would use the room, but he didn't have to like it.

"Thank you, m'lady," he choked out, not bothering to cover his discomfort with the idea.

In that moment, he glanced down and found Lady Mary staring back at him with such a look of open adoration that he was momentarily taken aback. All concerns about propriety fled him and he could not have hoped to have prevented the wide grin that overtook his face.

"Mrs. Carson," she said lowly without taking her eyes off the butler, "I leave him in your capable hands." Then she reached down and took his hand in hers for just long enough to give it a light squeeze before she walked on.

"I shall see you this evening after dinner. And I will expect a full report," Lady Mary called out as she crossed the hall, her voice echoing back to the room.

Mrs. Carson barely contained a snort of laughter.

Carson and Miss Neale continued to eye each other wordlessly as Mrs. Carson turned to close the door.

"Am I to take it this is the lark?" Mrs. Carson whispered, leaning back into him.

"What?" He gave a start when she spoke. "Oh, yes, of course. I do apologize. Miss Neale, this is Mrs. Carson, the housekeeper here at the Abbey."

Miss Neale crossed the floor with her hand extended as if to greet her, but Mrs. Carson ignored the gesture in favor of turning to her husband, mouth agape and eyebrows raised. He looked completely bewildered by her response for just a moment until realization struck him.

"Oh, of course, and she is my wife. Yes, Mrs. Carson is my wife."

Carson looked madly about the room for some hole he might crawl into to await the welcoming embrace of death. He wondered if the best course of action might not be to just leave and send Molesley back to see the woman on her way.

"Miss Neale," Mrs. Carson said as she continued to eye her husband intently, "you will have to excuse my husband. He seems to be suffering a bit of shock. You see, we rather expected someone else when we were told Miss Neale was here. Not that that wasn't quite a shock as well, mind."

"Oh, were you expecting Alice, Charlie?" She sounded alarmingly disappointed.

Carson opened his mouth to speak, but finding himself without words turned desperately to his wife.

"Yes, I suppose he was. We were," Mrs. Carson said.

"Only, I thought you knew, Charlie. Mr. Grigg said – "

"Miss Neale, why don't you have a seat?" Mrs. Carson suggested, indicating one of the chairs in front of the fireplace while she settled herself onto the sofa.

An awkward silence settled over the room, which was only broken when Carson calmed and finally found his voice.

"Yes, Grigg did tell me about Alice. I was sorry to hear of her death," he said somberly.

Miss Neale gave him a tight, sad smile and nodded her head.

"But you still expected it was Alice today?"

"Well, yes, I admit I did. You know, you couldn't really credit Grigg's word for much of anything."

"No, no, you couldn't. Still can't, I suppose."

Carson, still attempting to hold onto those few remnants of proper decorum within his grasp, had taken up a position standing in front of the sofa. Although his proximity to the women showed a considerably higher level of congeniality than would his usual position in the room – unobtrusively skulking about in the corner – his insistence on remaining standing provided for quite an awkward conversation as each of the women strained her neck to look up at him.

"Miss Neale, what brings you to Downton?" Mrs. Carson asked when it became clear conversation had been swallowed by a lull.

"I'm in the area to collect my niece," Miss Neale said, keeping her eyes firmly on Carson. "I came to Downton specifically to see an old friend."

"Your niece?" Carson asked. His voice was contained, but his eyebrows threatened to burst loose from his head.

"Yes, Katie. Well, her body." She murmured the last part lowly, but the meaning of the words seemed to grow in intensity as they reverberated around the room.

"Nanny Jenkins?" Mrs. Carson gasped.

"Yes, I suppose that would be how you knew her," Miss Neale said, her face dissolving into a mild grimace.

"Nanny Jenkins was your niece? How?"

Miss Neale furrowed her brow and looked at the housekeeper quizzically, as if not certain just how to respond to this question.

"Well, she was Alice's daughter. Although Alice was never able to care for her properly. I raised her from the time she was just a wee thing until she left home."

"I didn't realize Alice had ever married," Carson intoned with a deep frown.

"She didn't," Miss Neale said levelly.

Carson felt his blood rushing behind his ears. His knees began to grow weak and he faltered.

"Miss Neale, do excuse me, can I get you some tea?" Mrs. Carson asked, her words tumbling out as she leapt to her feet and crossed to the side table where the tea had been laid.

"Yes, thank you. That would be – "

"Why would Alice's daughter have come to Downton?" Carson asked.

Miss Neale looked at Carson intently for a moment, studying him as if she were trying to work out the solutions to some great mystery. He looked into her eyes and in that moment, he knew precisely what she was about to say.

"Well, I'd imagine she came here looking for her father," she said plainly.

And that would be the second tea cup Mrs. Carson dropped that morning.

"Elsie, dear," Carson muttered as he slowly lowered himself onto the sofa, "ring someone to clean that up and come sit here with me."

Her response was shaky, but decisive.

"Alright."


	17. The Axe

"Who is this woman in Carson's photograph?" Thomas asked.

He and Bates had attempted to refocus their efforts on the exploration of Smythe's things after the Carsons had gone upstairs, but the curious questions surrounding the photograph Thomas had found minutes before – a photograph that exactly matched one that had at one time rested in a frame on Carson's desk – were proving to be a nearly overwhelming distraction for the under-butler. Carson had a secret, and Thomas itched to know what it was.

"I couldn't say," Bates muttered as he turned his attentions to a suitcase full of what appeared to be sewing supplies.

"Couldn't say or won't say?"

Bates sighed. "I can't say because I don't know. Carson isn't any more likely to take me into his confidence regarding personal matters than he is you."

"I'd wager he might be at least a bit more likely," Thomas smirked.

Bates opened his mouth to respond, but was suddenly cut short by the prolonged sound of a woman's horrified scream bouncing and echoing through the corridors. Thomas's skin immediately began to prick and he felt his pulse rise in his throat.

"What do you suppose that's about?" Bates asked, eyebrows raised.

Thomas shrugged. "Probably another mouse in the kitchen," he said feigning disinterest to cover the sense of impending doom that had gripped his chest. Silently, he admitted to himself, that did not sound like any reaction to a mouse.

Running footsteps sounded in the hall as Molesley and Andy nearly flew past the pantry headed towards the backdoor. Followed closely by a rush of women.

"Perhaps we should just – " Bates was cut off by Mrs. Patmore's appearance in the doorway.

"Mr. Barrow, we need your assistance in the courtyard."

"My assistance?" Thomas asked incredulously.

"Well you are the blooming under-butler, aren't you?"

Oh good Lord. Of all the times for the staff to suddenly concern themselves with his position. Thomas rolled his eyes.

Thomas and Bates struggled to their feet and followed Mrs. Patmore down the hall. When Thomas crossed the threshold into the courtyard, his paced slowed as he took in the virtually unfathomable scene before him.

Phyllis and Madge were standing just outside the door. Madge was grasping desperately at Phyllis and had her face buried in Phyllis's neck, where she was sobbing uncontrollably. Phyllis had paled, but was slowly rocking Madge back and forth in an attempt to comfort her.

Daisy and Andy were standing near the picnic table, both staring off at the walls as if stunned. Mrs. Patmore walked over and stood beside Daisy, taking her hand and giving it a small pat. Three housemaids stood in a knot off to the other side of the courtyard, weeping and chanting incantations to one another under their breaths.

In the center of the courtyard, right in front of the stack of wooden crates, lay the body of a recently killed pig. The pig's head sat atop the crates, and blood was still dripping down the wooden surfaces to join the thick pool that surrounded the body. A bloodied axe, clearly the instrument of the kill, had been left leaning against the crates.

It wasn't a particularly large pig, Thomas noted, but it had clearly been killed right where it lay and within moments of its discovery. Thomas wondered briefly how none of them had heard the incredible commotion this must have caused.

Molesley, was roaming around eying the scene like some kind of a bloody investigator. Thomas watched as Molesley, apparently trying to get a better look at the pig itself – for some incomprehensible reason – absently stepped directly into the pooling blood, causing his feet to immediately slip from under him on the slick stone surface. As he went down, he twisted and tried to break his fall, only succeeding instead in landing face down, draped across the swine.

As his body made contact with the pig, Molesley emitted a noise from his mouth that sounded like something between a steam whistle, a roaring wind, and a peahen cry. A new wave of blood gushed from the pig's open neck. Phyllis screamed.

Thomas rested on his crutches and ran a hand across his face. Bloody hell. Indeed.

"Mr. Molesley," Thomas began quietly, "might I suggest that you get off that bloody pig and go clean yourself up?"

Bates bit back a smirk. Andy looked on in awe. Mrs. Patmore shook her head; Daisy followed suit. And the coven of housemaids continued their wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Molesley turned his face towards Thomas and glared. After but a moment's hesitation, Phyllis released Madge, leaving her to sob alone, and moved towards Molesley as if to offer him a hand. Thomas thrust a crutch in front of her, blocking her progress. Phyllis looked up at him with a start.

"Miss Baxter, I shouldn't think that Mr. Molesley would need you to join him atop that swine."

Bates released a snort of laughter.

After several moments spent slipping and sliding, Molesley was able to gain his footing and step delicately out of the still expanding pool of blood. Clearly dejected, he began moving towards the house with Phyllis following close behind. She raised a hand as if to lay it on his back in a comforting show of support, but then dropped it away upon apparently thinking better of it.

"Mr. Molesley, " Thomas called, "take your shoes off before you go inside. And don't touch anything. The last thing we need you doing is spreading pig's blood all over the house."

Thomas thought he heard the man lightly sobbing as he dropped down near the threshold to remove his shoes. Oh, good Lord.

"Madge saw the person what done it," Daisy said suddenly. "She said it were a woman."

Thomas turned to Madge with his eyebrows raised to the sky.

"A woman? A woman did this?" Thomas asked incredulously. "What woman? Did you recognize her?"

Madge opened her mouth as if to speak, but her voice was overtaken by yet another wave of hysteria. All she seemed capable of doing was shaking her head and sobbing uncontrollably.

"Madge," Thomas raised his voice, "did you recognize this woman?"

Madge gave no intelligible response.

"Madge!" By this point, Thomas felt that he might be threatening to grow hysterical himself.

"Stop blooming shouting at her," Mrs. Patmore said as she walked to Madge's side. "You'll get nothing from her by upsetting her even more."

Thomas rolled his eyes. Of all the bloody people to tell someone else to stop shouting.

"There, there love," Mrs Patmore said, wrapping an arm around the girl and giving her a squeeze. "You're among friends here. You know that. Mr. Barrow just wants to get to the bottom of all this."

Bates gave Thomas a pointed look as he stretched to hand Madge a handkerchief. Madge continued to watch Thomas through wary eyes, as she dried her eyes, took several deep breaths, hiccuped once, and seemed to calm.

"Yes, of course," Thomas said, trying desperately to moderate his tone. "Now, Madge, please tell me. Did you recognize the woman who did this?"

"No," she said after a pause.

"So, it wasn't anyone you know?"

"I don't know. I didn't see her."

"What do you mean you didn't bloody see her?" Thomas was shouting again, earning him a quick glare of warning from Mrs. Patmore.

"I – I just saw her skirt as she went out the gate," Madge said. "And she spoke after."

"She spoke? To you?"

"No, after she left out of the gate. She sort of called out, like to the air."

"Alright," Thomas was perplexed. "Well, did you recognize her voice?"

"No, her voice was strange. Like she was screaching. It wasn't a normal voice." She began crying again: soft, quiet sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep within.

"Alright, Madge, alright. Did you at least understand what she said?"

"Sh – she said, 'T – told y – you … '" Madge paused to breath. Deep, ragged breaths, one after another. "She said, 'Told you you'd not seen the last of me. You and the old witch'll be next.'"

Oh good Lord. The girl really is insane Thomas thought.

"She said all of that?" Mrs. Patmore asked inanely.

"Where is Mrs. Carson?" Thomas shouted. He looked wildly around the courtyard for an answer. "Where is Mrs. Carson?"

"She's upstairs in the drawing room with Mr. Carson and a guest," Molesley said quietly from his position still sitting on the floor in front of the doorway.

"You don't think Mrs. Carson did this?" Andy asked suddenly.

All eyes turned to Andy. No one answered that question.

"Andy, get these women inside and lock the doors," Thomas snapped. "All of the doors. Secure the entire house. Then get two or three of the older hall boys and send them out to search the grounds. Mr. Molesley, get yourself cleaned up and then help the boys with their search. I'm going to check on this guest in the drawing room."

No one moved.

"What?" Thomas snapped. "Get on with it."

"What are we looking for in this search of the grounds?" Molesley asked. "We don't even know who this woman is."

Thomas rubbed his head. Oh good Lord.

"Well, I suspect that if you find her, she will be covered in pig's blood, Mr. Molesley. I should think that you might at least recognize that."

Thomas got the brief impression that Molesley might be about to cry. Again.

"Now, as Mrs. Patmore so kindly reminded me, I am under-butler, and I have given you your orders. Now, go."

Molesley gave Thomas one last glare before turning and passing through the door. Andy began herding the women into the house.

"Mr. Bates," Thomas sighed, "can you go find his lordship and bring him down here? He's going to need to see this."

Bates momentarily eyed Thomas like he was some newly discovered creature never before imagined. He furrowed his brow and walked towards the door before calling out his answer.

"Alright."


	18. Miss Blue in the Hall

Charles and Elsie sat side-by-side on the sofa in the drawing room, their hands clasped between them. They had been sitting silently like this for a fair few minutes, staring off past Miss Neale's shoulder at nothing in particular more than the other side of the room.

For her part, Miss Neale seemed perfectly content to sit quietly in the moment, allowing the two of them to collect their thoughts. If anything, she appeared slightly amused by the entire circumstance, but then, she had delivered the bombshell. There was no shock from which she would need to recover.

Elsie had rung for the broken tea cup to be cleared away, but no one responded. Charles took in this failure on the part of staff with irritation, but just the slightest relief. The cup had been empty; there was no imperative to clear it away. And it was probably best that Molesley not wander in to view this prelude to the unraveling of his life. He imagined his very being might within moments be scattered about the floor amongst the shards. Perhaps the maids might just sweep him away as well, he thought wildly, and be done with the whole of the mess at once.

He watched to her out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting rigidly, head held high, conveying an attitude of calm, quiet authority. She could just as easily have been quietly taking tea in the servants' hall or meeting with Lady Grantham to discuss plans for the next garden party. To any outside observer, her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

Her hand, however, gripped Charles's with a discomforting ferocity that turned her knuckles white and made his fingertips burn and prick under the pressure. He would have pried his fingers loose if it weren't for his own desperate need in that moment for the reassurance of her touch, and the all-consuming fear that any wrong move on his part could send her hurtling away from him forever. And send him hurtling to the floor amongst the shards.

He tried to glimpse beyond the facade and read her mind, but found himself without any real clue as to how she was feeling, what she was thinking. What did she make of the implication of Miss Neale's words? The possibility that he had fathered a child with Alice was, he knew without reservation, simply out of the question. He and Alice had never been more physically intimate than holding hands, but he couldn't have expected Elsie, or anyone else, to know such details.

If Alice had told her own sister that he fathered this child – the dead nanny, oh good Lord – how could he expect anyone to believe it wasn't true? Would she believe him? And what would she make of him, what was to become of him if she came to believe him a man who would take such a risk, a man who might abandon a woman to care for his child unaided? No, surely she knew him better than that. Didn't she?

His mind flashed back to a long-ago conversation, during the war, a conversation about Ethel and her circumstance. "Men will always be men," he had said, placing the responsibility for the entire debacle squarely at Ethel's feet. Oh, dear Lord. It sounded so much worse now.

"Miss Neale. Lillian," Charles began slowly, licking his lips and trying to find the precise words to clarify the situation, "I don't know what Alice may have told you about the nature of our relationship, but – "

"Oh, Charlie, stop. I know you weren't Katie's father." She said it with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if the very idea were too absurd to even be seriously addressed. Carson frowned.

"Pardon me, but did you not just say – "

"I said that Katie came here looking for her father. She thought she would find him here. I did not."

Elsie's grip on him eased slightly, and he felt a fresh wave of relief roll across his being.

"And why would Miss Jenkins … " Elsie said. "Was that her name, Miss Jenkins?"

"No, it was not. Her name was Neale. And I do not know why she adopted that name, unless of course it was so as not to raise questions with Charlie before she was ready to claim him as her father."

Elsie shifted a bit closer to him on the sofa and clutched Charles's hand just that much tighter.

"I see. What I mean to ask is why would your niece think Mr. Carson her father?" Generally, her voice was light, controlled, but it seemed to Charles that she had stressed his title and name particularly, as if trying to make a pointed statement to Miss Neale in that moment.

Miss Neale pursed her lips and studied Elsie intently for a moment, equal parts annoyance and amusement dancing across her features.

"I'm afraid," she began slowly, "the answer to that question would be because I allowed her to think it."

"You did what?" Charles shouted. A rush of anger overtook him and he began to leap to his feet, but Elsie pulled him back.

"Let the woman explain herself," she whispered through gritted teeth.

Charles ran a hand across his hair and down his neck as he released a deep ragged breath.

"Miss Neale, how did Alice's daughter even come to know of me, much less imagine that I was her …" He stopped, couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence. The idea of it felt a blasphemy.

It was a long moment before she responded, and when she did, she gave an answer that to Charles seemed wholly unrelated to the question.

"Charlie, I'm not certain you really ever understood who Alice was. She was a vain, capricious flirt who collected suitors like some people collect souvenir spoons. I imagine if she could have tied you all to a string and worn it around her waist she would have been a happy woman."

As if suddenly overtaken with emotion, she rose from her seat and quickly crossed the room to stand again behind the sofa and in front of the windows.

"As it was, she was miserable, and she only managed to make everyone around her miserable as well," she said. Charles turned partially on the sofa and watched as she absently ran her hand down one of the curtains to gather a portion of the material in her fist.

"Forgive me, but that sounds rather a harsh assessment," Charles said, turning back to face the room. He wasn't at all certain in that moment why he felt compelled to defend Alice after all she had put him through, after all she had apparently done, but something in him could not allow this unkindness from her own sister to go unchecked. Or perhaps it was really just that he didn't want to imagine he was just one solitary fool among a great collection of suitors, even now after all this time.

"Oh, Charlie, you always were too good for all of us," she sighed. Charles furrowed his brow and wondered for a moment just what she had really meant to imply. "She was my sister and I loved her owing to that alone, but she left misery in her wake wherever she went. It's just a fact. And as much misery as she left, she carried even more with her."

She leaned heavily against the window with a sigh, and Charles had the instant impression that at least portions of her story, her explanation were a performance. It wasn't that he disbelieved her, to the contrary he didn't question her veracity. It was more that her words and actions seemed scripted somehow, as if she had rehearsed this scene in her head many times over.

"And then Katie came," she said, interrupting his musings. "Alice treated the child with a level of indifference that was shocking even to me. Years went by, she didn't see her. Not even a letter or a card."

"What of the child's father?" Charles asked, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat.

Moments passed and Charles began to wonder if she was going to speak again at all. He glanced over his shoulder to find that she had turned and was gazing pensively out the window. Perhaps the question was too close, too impertinent, he thought. When she spoke again, her voice was low, her tone was soft.

"I'm not certain even Alice knew definitively who the father was. Whether she did or not, she would never tell me. And she certainly never had anything to say to Katie on the subject."

Charles stared straight ahead, trying to rectify in his mind this new image of Alice with the version he had stored within him for so long. Was this really the woman the loss of whose affections he had devoted the better part of his life to mourning?

"It must have been difficult for you, raising a child on your own," Elsie said. Her voice was tinged with a thoughtful warmth that seemed to catch Miss Neale off guard, but didn't surprise Charles in the least. He wondered if she too had thought of Ethel.

"Thank you for that," Miss Neale said with a small, tight smile. "Yes, it was quite a struggle at times, but honestly, I do think it might have been even more difficult for Alice to have raised her."

"What do you mean?" Charles asked.

"Alice was a fallen woman, with all the judgment and disapprobation that comes with the term. She would have struggled mightily to find employment, support, regard within any community if she had the child along as a constant reminder of her shame."

"So instead she fled her responsibilities and left you to struggle under that weight?"

"Ah, but you see, I was the sainted spinster aunt, striving to fulfill familial obligations at great personal cost. I was practically a martyr in the eyes of some. The weight on me was much less than it might have been on Alice."

"And what of the girl? Is this how she viewed the situation, her situation?"

"Heavens, I'm not certain I know how Katie viewed the situation. I'm not certain we ever discussed it fully." She seemed to have calmed a bit, and had crossed the room to reclaim her seat. "She was a good girl, my Katie. Made a lot of mistakes, but she was a good girl. It was like the poor thing spent her whole life out in the hall, just waiting on someone to invite her into the room."

Charles closed his eyes for a moment and tried to puzzle out her analogy. It made no sense. None of it really made any sense.

"None of this really explains why she would look to Mr. Carson as her father," Elsie said, "or, as he said, how she even came to know of him at all."

"No, I suppose not," Miss Neale breathed. "Well, as I said, I really have never known who the father was, but I had my suspicions. And, frankly, my suspicions were not particularly enticing. Here I was, raising this young girl who'd been all but abandoned by her parents. Really, she had been abandoned. And it seemed no time at all before she had questions. Questions I just didn't know how to answer. The last thing I wanted to do was tell her that her father was some malingerer or fraudster."

"Charlie Grigg," Charles spat.

"He was one possibility, but believe me, he was not the only," Miss Neale said as she settled back into her chair and looked at him pointedly. "I'm afraid he does play a rather significant role in how your name became involved in all of this, however."

"And why does that not surprise?" he ground out.

Miss Neale laughed and Charles found himself momentarily irritated by her laughter. After all she had told him about Alice and her child, and the fact that the girl – woman – now lay murdered somewhere, her sudden giddiness struck him as grossly inappropriate.

As if sensing his discomfort, Elsie released his hand and brushed her fingers lightly over his wrist before resting her hand on his knee. She always did seem to know.

"Did Mr. Grigg suggest to her that Mr. Carson might her father then?" Elsie asked.

"Oh, no it wasn't quite so prosaic as that," she said. "You see, when Alice left Katie with me, it also meant she left the act, left performing entirely. Of course, I continued as a soloist. Singing was really the only life I had ever known. In many ways, the company was quite the help for me in taking care of the child, almost like an extended family. None of them would ever have let her go hungry, her needs were always well met. But in other ways, well, a life backstage is really not the best life for a child."

"I should say not," Charles mumbled.

"Yes, Charlie, you remember how it was. Well, in addition to everything you are undoubtedly imagining, there was also the tendency of show people to talk – incessantly, and on subjects they really knew nothing about. If they didn't know the facts, they would create the facts. Rumors circulated and, for those spreading them, quickly became the truth."

"I don't believe that inclination is limited to performers," Elsie said.

"You may be right. It seems to be rather rampant wherever people gather. As it was, it was the performers who caused me this particular problem. You see, by the time Katie was about eight-years-old, she had become obsessed with discovering her father's identity."

"Well, you could hardly blame her, really."

"No, I suppose not. She knew Alice, of course, from a distance, but her father was a total mystery. And I certainly didn't want to tell a young girl that even her own mother didn't know who her father was. It's not exactly a life lesson one might want her to take to heart."

"No, I wouldn't think."

"Apparently, one of the performers told her or she overheard, I'm not sure which, that her father was a former member of the company, specifically, one of the Cheerful Charlies."

Charles inhaled sharply, "I see."

"Well, yes, she latched hold of the idea like a dog with a bone. It was all she would speak of for weeks. You must understand, Charlie Grigg was still turning up periodically like a bad penny."

"Yes, he has that habit."

"Well, I certainly couldn't have this child I was raising thinking that Charlie Grigg was her father and wanting to know him better, whether it was true or not. The whole notion would have lead to nothing but heartache under the best of circumstances."

"I can't say I entirely disagree with that," Charles said pursing his lips. "But surely if he was her father – "

"Who knows?" she said with not a little exasperation. "Regardless, he was a headache I wanted no parts of, so I lied. Well, I didn't exactly tell her that you were her father, but I did tell her that Mr. Grigg was not. From there, I let her draw her own conclusions in the beginning."

"In the beginning?" Elsie asked tightly.

"Well, yes. After a time, I admit, it became easier to go along with the fantasy." She looked at Charles with a wistful smile. "You see, Charlie, you're something of a legend among the older members of the company. No one ever had a bad word to say about Charlie Carson. You were just this wonderful, kind man who moved on from us because he was always meant for better things. And frankly, I rather preferred the notion that Katie was your child over the thought that she might have been Mr. Grigg's. Or a stranger's. Why, I told Alice when she refused you and took up with Grigg, you were clearly the better man. Any girl would be … yes, well."

Her voice had taken on something of a dreamlike tone. Charles coughed nervously and glanced to the floor. He couldn't quite put his finger on the problem, but he felt the conversation was taking a somewhat uncomfortable turn. One look at Elsie told him she was barely keeping her temper in check.

"So you raised the child with this lie," Elsie said. "That hardly explains how she found Mr. Carson, or why she turned up here all these years later. I would have thought a girl in these circumstances might have gone looking for her father while she was still a girl. Nanny Jenkins … your niece must have been nearly forty-years-old."

"Yes, well, Katie never would let go of this notion of finding her father. It was something of a hobbyhorse for her. And this is where Mr. Grigg comes in once again. You see, a few years ago, Katie visited me in London. It had been years since I had seen her. She ran off to Blackpool when she was about twenty and her contact with me was sporadic, at best. I'm afraid she became involved in some things of which she thought I mightn't approve."

Charles and Elsie shared a furtive glance, memories of the lewd photographs found amongst Smythe's things hung in the air. Mightn't approve, indeed, Charles thought.

"But, as I say, she was visiting me in London and she seemed ready to put that life behind. She wanted to find respectable work, move on and make something better of herself. She was trying to get work as a nanny. She always did love children, but she knew with her background it wouldn't be easy."

How had she managed it? Charles wondered. He thought perhaps he should talk to Lady Mary about what the woman's references had been. He questioned how Elsie had not thought to address this question before.

"We were out walking one day when we happened across Mr. Grigg, who quite naturally, being Mr. Grigg, launched into a conversation from which I could not escape. During the course of his ramblings, he mentioned that he had seen you, Charlie, before the war, and much to my annoyance, he divulged precisely where to find you. Well, then of course, Katie was off and running."

"Why did she not come here right away, then?" Elsie asked.

"Quite simply, because she wanted to build a respectable life first. She thought her father a man of integrity and honor. She wanted him to be proud of her." She glanced pointedly at Charles, before looking quickly away.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Charles was stunned by the inexplicable wave of remorse that washed across his conscience at the thought that this young woman, a stranger to him, had held so much concern for his judgment of her.

"Somehow, and I don't entirely understand how, she got a job working for a middle-class family in the north, and then moved on to work for an aristocratic family nearby. When the position here came available, she was convinced it was providence at work."

"Yes, I suppose she would be," Elsie said.

"She wrote to me soon after she started here, practically rhapsodizing about you, Charlie: what a kind and fair man you were, how wonderful you were with the children, how efficiently you managed the household, upholding the highest standards of dignity and decorum, how the family just adored you. She was absolutely smitten with you. Well, both of you really."

"Both?" Elsie asked with a start.

"Well yes, I'm assuming that you were married rather recently, that you were formerly Mrs. Hughes?"

"That is correct."

"Yes, Katie had quite a bit to say about you as well. Apparently, before she came here, she harbored some feelings of resentment towards anyone who she imagined might have been part of Charlie's life while she was not. I suppose that was to be expected, really."

Charles tried to swallow past the knot that had grown up in his throat, but found he could only nod his head.

"Once she met you, her attitude changed. She wrote, and I can nearly quote this exactly, that it was apparent from her observations that her father," she nodded ironically towards Charles, "had spent decades quietly working along side his one great love, that the two of you bolstered one another in a manner she had never before witnessed, and that your affection for one another was nearly holy in its purity and strength. The girl always was overly-sentimental. I think she rather thought she had found a family complete. I admit I may have felt a pang of jealousy over that."

"I see," Elsie faltered. Charles looked over and found her eyes glistening with unshed tears. He reached out to run his hand across hers and she turned her wrist so that their fingers interlaced.

"I still don't understand," he said lowly. "She was here for quite sometime. Why did she never come to me? Or to us, apparently."

"I suppose she wanted you to know her, like her, before she sprung this on you. I imagine she was bolstering her courage. And then, of course, there was Harold to contend with."

"Harold Smythe?" Charles winced.

"Yes, I understand that is what he's calling himself these days," Miss Neale laughed.

"Is that not his name?" Elsie asked.

"We've never known what his name truly was."

Charles felt his brow furrow in confusion.

"If I may, what was the nature of the relationship between – "

"Mrs. Carson," Barrow's voice rung through the room before he had even pushed the door open.

"What is the meaning of this?" Charles bellowed, leaping to his feet. Elsie rose slowly to stand beside him.

Barrow rested on his crutches and ran a hand across his face.

"Mr. Carson, I do apologize for the interruption, but there has been something of an incident below stairs and you are needed immediately."

"Be that as it may," Charles began to bluster, "there can be no excuse – "

Charles was cut-off by Elsie's hand on his arm. He looked to her in confusion, but she merely nodded her head in Barrow's direction. It was then that he took in the man's countenance: pale, breathing heavily, very nearly glassy-eyed.

"Very well, Mr. Barrow, what has happened now?" he sighed.

Barrow glanced nervously to Miss Neale.

"Perhaps it would be best if we addressed this below stairs."

"I really should be going," Miss Neale said. "It's been – "

"I'm afraid I can't allow that," Barrow said, clearly mustering the little authority he had at his disposal.

"You're afraid … you what?" Charles asked. "Mr. Barrow – "

"Mr. Carson, there is reason to believe that a dangerous individual may currently be lurking about somewhere on the grounds. The doors have been locked. It is best that no one leave the house until this situation has been resolved."

"Have you gone mad?"

Barrow sighed and pressed his fingers to his temple.

"Yes, perhaps I have. Perhaps we all have, but if you will just come with me and assess the situation for yourself, I am certain that you will agree that it poses a serious safety concern."

"Has his lordship – "

"Mr. Bates is fetching his lordship. And we can send Miss Baxter or one of the maids up to keep your guest company for the time."

"Has anyone been injured?" Elsie asked.

"Not yet," Barrow said pointedly.

"Mr. Carson," she said lowly, "perhaps we should go."

Charles threw up his hands in defeat.

"Alright."

* * *

 _Just a note: no one reads these things before I post them, and I pretty much proofread as I go, so if any of y'all see any corrections you think I should make, I'd be thrilled to hear (read) about them._


	19. The Bare Hands

They were stood in the courtyard, the six of them aligned in a neatly imperfect row: Bates, Mrs. Patmore, Barrow, Lord Grantham, Carson, Mrs. Carson – quietly taking in the scene: the lifeless pig on the floor surrounded by a lake of coagulating blood; poorly-formed bloody footprints showing the routes taken in traipsing about the yard; small pools of rainwater left from the earlier weather, now tinted crimson; the silent threat of the now-stilled and bloodied axe leaning almost-casually against the crates; the grotesquely grinning sow's head, perched above it all.

A heavy silence surrounded the group, as each of them just stared in shock, none knowing precisely how to launch a conversation that might address either the apparent underlying threat or the sheer absurdity of this incident. Which questions should one like to ask, or just what answers might one like to give, when on an otherwise average Friday morning in April livestock has been slaughtered in the back courtyard and copious amounts of blood have been left strewn throughout?

"What are these tracks, smears in the blood?" Lord Grantham finally broke the silence while waving his hand in the pig's general direction.

"That would be where Mr. Molesley slipped and fell onto the pig, m'lord," Barrow said.

His lordship turned to Barrow, eyebrows raised in question and alarm.

"Where … pardon?"

"Yes, m'lord, it seems he wanted to get a closer look. Unfortunately, he landed his foot on rather a slick spot and consequently, landed himself on the poor creature."

Lord Grantham looked baffled.

"Why would he …?"

"I believe the answer to that, m'lord, may lie in the fact that it is Mr. Molesley we are discussing."

Mrs. Patmore barked out a single harsh laugh.

"I see. Of course," Lord Grantham said, fighting against his face to confine a spreading grin.

Barrow wasn't precisely certain how Mrs. Patmore had ended up out here with the others, but he saw no reason to fight her presence. She certainly wasn't going to dissolve into the infuriatingly distracting wailing and rending of garments that the housemaids were likely to do. She may even have had something to add, although Barrow did rather doubt that.

"Madge was the one to find it," Mrs. Patmore said. "Saw the one what did it too."

"Madge?" Lord Grantham looked pensive, seemed to be searching his memories.

"Lady Edith's maid, m'lord," Carson said.

"Ah, yes, of course."

"How is Madge holding up?" Mrs. Carson asked, glancing back towards the house. "This must have been quite a shock."

"Miss Baxter is with her," Bates volunteered. "She seems to have calmed now."

"You say she saw the culprit?" his lordship asked. "Did she recognize him?"

"Not precisely. It seems it was a woman, m'lord," Barrow said.

"A woman? A woman did this?"

"Apparently so, m'lord. All Madge actually saw was her skirt as she left out the gate. And she heard her voice. The woman apparently called out."

"Called out?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"Did Madge say what this woman 'called out'?"

Barrow leaned forward to peer past the others at Mrs. Carson.

"It was something along the lines of, 'I told you that you'd not seen the last of me. You and the old witch'll be next,'" he said, watching her steadily for any reaction. The words seemed to startle her and she turned immediately to meet his eyes, a silent question shining in her own. He gave her a quick tight nod and her eyes grew wide in recognition. Carson glanced back and forth between his wife and Barrow, tensely observing this strange silent exchange.

"What does it mean?" his lordship asked, brow furrowed while staring absently at the pig.

"M'lord," Barrow said while continuing to maintain eye contact with the housekeeper, "I believe it was a threat."

"Well, that much is obvious," Mrs. Patmore said with a roll of her eyes. "Who's been threatened? That's the question. Who is this old witch?"

Barrow swallowed hard and inclined his head slightly towards Mrs. Carson. Carson gave a silent start and turned abruptly towards his wife as anxiety bloomed across his features.

"Based on the context of previous discussions," Barrow said, "I believe the threat was directed towards Mrs. Carson and myself."

"Mrs. Carson? Who would threaten Mrs. Carson? It's inconceivable." His lordship was sputtering incredulously, but the others, perhaps remembering the knife that had been stuck into Mrs. Carson's spot at the table the evening before, were considerably more subdued in their response. Barrow noted, with just a touch of bitterness, that no one at all seemed surprised that a threat might be directed towards himself.

"Previous discussions with whom?" Carson intoned slowly without looking away from his wife.

"Pardon me?" Of course, Barrow knew exactly what the butler was asking, but something in the man's demeanor caused him a moment's hesitation in answering.

"With whom did you have these previous discussions that give you cause to believe this threat was directed towards yourself and Mrs. Carson in particular?"

Barrow watched as Mrs. Carson shut her eyes in anticipation of his answer.

"Molly," he breathed.

"Molly?" Carson turned with a start.

"Who?" his lordship asked.

"The housemaid what left out of here in the rain this morning?" Mrs. Patmore supplied thoughtfully. "Come think of it, she did say something to Mr. Barrow about not having heard the last of her."

"Do we think this is tied to the nanny's murder somehow?" Lord Grantham asked.

The question gave Barrow pause. He was certain the batty girl hadn't killed the nanny, but the idea briefly flitted through his head that perhaps, given what she had actually done, they could just pin the murder on her and be done with the mess altogether.

"No, m'lord, not strictly speaking."

"You told me Molly had given notice. You never said she threatened you," Carson said turning back to his wife.

"Because she never did."

"Mr. Barrow seems to think she did, and based on the looks you two are exchanging, I would say none of this appears to come entirely as a surprise to you."

Mrs. Carson narrowed her eyes and folded her hands at her waist.

"Molly made no previous threats of which I am aware. She did, however, make some comments to Mr. Barrow about senior staff, which one might consider inappropriate. Mr. Barrow is aware that I overheard that conversation."

"And it was after this conversation that she gave her notice?"

"That is correct."

"If this girl was making, as you call them, inappropriate comments about you, I should have thought you might have informed me."

Oh, good Lord. What was he on about now?

"Why?"

"Why?" Carson's eyebrows were fighting their way towards his hairline.

"Yes, why? Do you honestly believe that I should come to you every time some housemaid steps out of line? The situation was well in hand."

"Every time some …? Well in hand? This woman has made a threat on your life. If not as the butler, then as your husband – "

"Mr. Carson, I assure you, in spite of recent changes in our relationship, I am still perfectly capable of handling minor staffing matters without your constant intercession."

"I believe this pig might beg to differ," he waved his hands about above his head and all but bellowed.

Mrs. Carson opened her mouth to speak, but her planned response was cut short by his lordship.

"Carson," Lord Grantham said lowly, "if I might offer you a bit of advice as something of a veteran of the matrimonial trenches? Discretion might be the better part of valor in this particular circumstance."

Carson turned to look at his lordship sheepishly and then ran his eyes warily across the entire group, as if he had momentarily forgotten he was in the presence of others.

"Yes, of course," he said tugging at his waistcoat, "I do apologize, m'lord. I seem to have forgotten myself."

"I've a feeling you might want to direct that apology elsewhere before too long, old man," Lord Grantham whispered with a chuckle and a conspiratorial slap to Carson's back.

Carson did not look amused, but Barrow had watched the entire exchange with something approaching gleeful awe.

Any further conversation was momentarily forestalled by the approaching sounds of a woman's screams.

"I said let me go, you ruffians."

The gate flew open and two hall boys pushed their way into the courtyard, dragging Molly between them, kicking her feet and fighting like a wildcat the entire way.

"Ah, stop that kicking," one of the boys cried as the hard sole of her shoe made contact with his shin. "We don't 'ave to tolerate this from you," he hollered, wrenching her arm behind her to push her further into the yard.

Just as Barrow had predicted, the front of the girl's dress was covered in now dried blood. Additionally, her skirt was torn, and what remained of it was damp and covered in burrs. Her hair had come loose and tumbled untamed about her head. She appeared to have a large nasty scratch across her forehead, which had clearly bled, and a significant bruise across the top of her nose. She looked around wild-eyed at the scene before her and let out a shrill scream when her eyes fell on his lordship.

"Am I to take it that this is Molly?" his lordship asked quietly.

"Yes, m'lord," Barrow replied.

"We found 'er 'iding behind the barns, m'lord," the larger of the hall boys stuttered out nervously, unaccustomed as he must have been to interacting with his lordship.

"I wasn't hiding. I was merely having a rest. No law against resting, is there?"

"I'd say there are laws against trespass and threatening bodily harm," Carson said, moving to hover protectively just behind his wife. "Not to mention stealing this pig from whomever you took it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She affected a sudden air of complete calm, thrusting her chin into the air so she could peer down her nose at the butler.

"You say you don't know what he's talking about, but your dress is telling another story, Molly," Barrow said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. "What did I tell you about not being smart enough to carry off your schemes."

"And what did I tell you about speaking to me like that? I never stole any pig. That was my father's pig, and as he's dead, that made it my pig to do with as I saw fit."

Barrow briefly wondered if she had killed the old man as well.

"So, you admit you are behind all this," his lordship asked, waving an open hand in front of him. "Why would you do this?"

Molly's eyes flew wide.

"M'lord," she began, taking on a rather pathetic tone, Barrow thought, "I needed this job, desperately, to help support two younger brothers and a widowed decrepit aunt. But Mr. Barrow and Mrs. Carson conspired to force me out."

It was all Barrow could do to keep himself from laughing aloud. He glanced to Mrs. Carson whose brow was furrowed in confusion and concern.

"That sounds highly unlikely," Lord Grantham said through pursed lips. "Mrs. Carson?"

"M'lord," Mrs. Carson sighed after a moment's hesitation, "Molly caused a good deal of commotion below stairs yesterday when she stole a particular knife from the kitchen."

Carson responded to this divulgence with a look of alarm, but Mrs. Patmore's response drew all the attention.

"Why you horrid little wench …" Mrs. Patmore attempted to fling herself at the wench in question, but Bates and his lordship both reached out to hold her back. She struggled against their barrier for a moment before an admonishing glare from Mrs. Carson reminded her of where she was. "I do apologize, m'lord," she said brushing out her apron, "my temper got the better of me for a moment."

"As I was saying," Mrs. Carson continued, "This knife had been stolen, and it came to Mr. Barrow's attention that Molly was the culprit. Mr. Barrow simply urged the girl to return what she had taken and give notice before any more fuss was made and while she still had chance of a reference."

"Sounds quite a reasonable response to me," his lordship said, "given the circumstances."

"No, that's not what happened. This lot here are trying to bring a murderer back into the house, and when I objected that I didn't want to be the next victim, they conspired to be rid of me. How do you feel about them bringing a murderer into your home?" Molly was all but whining at this point.

"Is this true?" Lord Grantham asked.

There was a moment of mass confusion as the staff turned questioningly to his lordship.

"Is what true, m'lord? That Anna's a murderer?" Mrs. Carson was the first to find her voice.

"No, of course not, but that this girl, Molly, objected, that she was afraid."

"She objected to a good many things, m'lord. I can't say whether she was afraid."

Just then, the sky opened up and thick, heavy raindrops began to fall on the courtyard. The sudden appearance of rain was enough to distract the two hall boys who had been lulled into something of a false sense of security by Molly's relative compliance over the previous few minutes. The girl abruptly broke free from their hold, and flew at Mrs. Carson.

The sound of the slap echoed through the raindrops and bounced off the courtyard walls, as Molly's open palm made contact with the side of Mrs. Carson's face. Before anyone could react, Molly had her hands wrapped firmly about Mrs. Carson's throat and seemed to be shaking her whole body back and forth.

Carson, clearly in a panic for how to respond, wrapped his arms around his wife's waist and began trying to pull her away from her attacker. The hall boys ran forward to try and wrench Molly's hands loose from Mrs. Carson's neck. Barrow moved forward to try and pull at Molly's arms. His lordship looked dumbfounded.

Without warning, Mrs. Patmore reached out and snatched Bates's cane from his hand, leaving an off-balance Bates flailing to steady himself on Barrow's left shoulder before he should topple to the ground. She took two steps and swung the cane, landing a solid blow in the middle of Molly's back. Molly cried out and loosened her grip on Mrs. Carson just enough for the hall boys to wrest her to the ground.

"Sit on her," Carson called out as he all but lifted Mrs. Carson off the ground by the waist.

Mrs. Patmore raised the cane over her head with the clear intention of bringing it down on the now prone Molly, without regard to the hall boys who may have been in the way, but his lordship reached up with one hand and caught the stick before she could lower it again.

"I think she's had quite enough for now, Mrs. Patmore," Lord Grantham said, wrenching the cane from her hands and passing it back to Bates. Mrs. Patmore looked around wild-eyed as if seeking another weapon to finish the job, before resigning herself to joining the boys in sitting on their squirming, screeching captive.

Barrow turned to Mrs. Carson, who was bent over still laboring to breath and being entirely supported in keeping upright by the butler's arm wrapped around her waist from behind. Ugly red marks were already forming on her throat, and the entire side of her face looked to be swollen and burning.

Bending down as much as his crutches would allow, he took her face gently in his hands so he could look at her directly.

"Are you alright?" Barrow whispered.

Unshed tears clouded her eyes as she granted him a sad, tired smile. She reached up and ran a hand over his hair before taking his chin in her hand for just a moment.

"Oh, my boy, I'm fine," she choked out, straightening her back to stand unaided. "It will take more than the likes of that girl to do me serious harm."

Carson released his grip on her waist and she reached out to take his hand to steady herself.

"Are you sure?" Carson whispered desperately at her ear. "Perhaps I should call the doctor."

"I'm fine," Mrs. Carson said, gripping Carson's hand. "I'm fine."

Barrow thought a visit from Dr. Clarkson might not be a bad idea.

"I believe we should take this inside before we are all well and drenched," his lordship said.

"What should we do with this one?" the larger of the hall boys asked, pointing to the still struggling girl held captive under them. "It'll be some time before the police can get 'ere to collect 'er."

"Lock her in the store cupboard," Carson said. He reached for the keys at Mrs. Carson's waist, reacting with shock and slight indignation when she batted his hand away.

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Patmore shouted over the still screaming girl. "I'll not have the likes of her locked up with all my stores to sabotage the ingredients for the dowager's dinner tomorrow night."

"Oh, heaven forbid," his lordship muttered without the slightest irony.

"We could put 'er in the boot room," the smaller boy suggested, as he reached down to cover Molly's mouth in a weak attempt to silence her.

"There innit a lock on the boot room door," the larger boy replied.

"Well we could push sometin' in front of the door."

"The door opens in, you –"

"Enough!" Mrs. Carson's voice had returned to her in full force. "Mrs. Patmore, you are going to have to get your girls and the rest of the hall boys to move the stores into the kitchen for the time being. Mr. Carson is right; the store cupboard is the only room with an appropriate lock that can be quickly cleared out."

She reached down and unhooked the keys from her waist and pressed them into Mr. Carson's hand.

"I'll be in my sitting room," she told him quietly, squeezing his arm lightly before she turned to walk inside. She stopped in the doorway, however, and turned back to Carson. "When you call the police, ask them to bring their sheet along as well. We might as well get this all over with at once." And with that, she resolutely slammed the door.

"Well," his lordship smirked, "I believe we all have our orders."

"I should say so," Mrs. Patmore snorted.

"I believe Mrs. Carson is right about getting all this business with the police over with at once," Lord Grantham said. "Bates, do you have that paperwork we discussed?"

Carson turned to him with a start.

"Yes, m'lord," Bates replied with a surreptitious glance toward the group.

What ho? What is this? Barrow wondered. It all sounded rather suspicious.

"Very good," his lordship muttered. "Bates, if you could come with me, I think I'll change and we can discuss the details. Carson, please notify me when the officers have arrived."

"Yes, m'lord. I will just go ring for Sgt. Willis now."

"And call for the doctor," his lordship said. "Just as a precaution. If Mrs. Carson gets upset with you, tell her you were simply following my orders."

"Yes, m'lord," Carson smiled.

"And call the butcher," Mrs. Patmore called out.

All eyes turned to the cook. Bates snickered.

"Mrs. Patmore?" His lordship's eyebrows raised and a grin spread wide across his face.

"What? That's a fair lot of meat to just let go to waste."

"Of course," Lord Grantham laughed lightly. "Carson, call the butcher."

Carson looked mildly revolted by the notion. And he didn't even see Molesley flailing about on the bloody thing, Barrow thought with a shudder.

"Yes, m'lord," he said before turning towards the door with a shake of his head, while muttering just loudly enough to be heard. "Alright."


	20. Dr Brown in the Gardens

Charles rushed through the necessary telephone calls and then rushed the hall boys through the installation of Molly into the store cupboard. He rushed to ask Barrow to oversee the removal of the rest of Smythe's things from his pantry and into the hall boys' dining area prior to the arrival of the police, considering that they might like to see what other secrets the man held before turning them over as evidence.

He informed Andrew that the family intended to take sandwiches for luncheon and all but told the boy to handle the service himself, once it became clear that Molesley had not yet returned from searching the grounds for the now long-ago-located pig slaughterer. Barrow suggested that Molesley would return on his own when it grew dark or he grew hungry – much like a spaniel, he had said. Charles couldn't find anything to dispute in the assessment.

These critical tasks out of the way, Charles waved off any additional questions from staff, obtained an ice-filled towel from the kitchens and went in search of his wife. He found her sitting at her desk, working figures in her ledger as if it were just any other day, as if a mad woman hadn't just attempted to strangle her in the courtyard in front of half the staff, a decapitated swine, and Lord Grantham.

At a glance, her cheek, swollen and flaming red, served as the sole reminder that this was not, in fact, just any other day at all. He locked the door behind him and crossed to press the ice-filled cloth into her hand.

"Thank you." She spoke matter-of-factly, no differently than if he had just passed her the salt at dinner. She received the ice and pressed it to her cheek, barely acknowledging him at all.

He ran his hand over her hair and bent to kiss the top of her head. She didn't react, just continued turning invoices and scratching figures onto the page.

"His lordship was right. I owe you an apology. I should never have questioned you like that, and certainly not in front of the staff."

"Thank you for that," she said, quietly directing her comments to the desktop. He noticed that her voice had something of a raspy quality to it and he wondered if speaking might be causing her pain.

"Elsie, come sit with me," he said, crossing to fall into his usual seat next to the door.

She paused, silent for a moment, before she returned her attentions to the ledger book in front of her.

"As you reminded me yourself just earlier today, we have work to attend to. None of these distractions will complete my books or next week's rotas."

"Stop it. Whatever you have to do can wait for a few moments, at least. Come here and talk to me." He felt tears building in his eyes and swallowed at the lump that was forming in his throat.

"Charles, really, I'm fine. There's no need for all this fuss." Her pen continued to scratch across the ledger page.

"Has it occurred to you at all that perhaps I'm not fine?"

She dropped her pen and turned the swivel chair to face him, a shadow passing over her face.

"No, honestly, it hadn't."

"Come here."

She left the ice melting in the towel on the floor next to her desk, and with a sigh moved towards her chair on the other side of the table from him, but he stretched to take her hand and pull her into his lap. He pressed his chin onto her shoulder and wrapped himself around her, pulling her to his chest with an urgency he hadn't even been fully aware he felt just moments before. He held her quietly like this for a fair few minutes before he noticed that her body had begun to shudder and he realized she was crying.

"Hey now, what's this?" he asked pulling her impossibly further into his embrace. "I thought you were fine."

"I was fine until … " Her words just drifted off into another round of tears.

It occurred to him that he had never before actually seen her cry. In more than twenty years of shared joys and sorrows, he had never seen anything beyond the mere suggestion of mist in her eyes. Selfishly, he thought it was a good thing that Mrs. Hughes had never broken down in front of him; it would have driven him mad to see her in such anguish when he couldn't reach out to her, couldn't hold her.

"You do know that you don't have to be fine, don't you? Not for me. Not now." He pressed a kiss to her temple and the sobbing began anew. "Oh dear, tell me. What can I do?"

She took a deep ragged breath and sighed. She reached into his pocket to remove his handkerchief and pressed it to her face.

"It's just so different," she said.

"What is? Having a mad woman try to kill you in the courtyard? Yes, I should hope that is different." He thought to laugh, but couldn't quite muster the humor in the situation. She smiled at him weakly through her tears.

"No, being cared for. It caught me quite off guard."

He frowned at this.

"Elsie, you must know, I have cared for you for quite a long time."

"No, Charles, you haven't," she said, patting him on the chest. "Not really. I believe you have cared about me, but you have never felt yourself in a position to care for me. There is a difference."

"Oh, my dear, I am sorry that I – "

"No, when you said you weren't fine, and then you … I suppose, I just suddenly saw how very much I had to lose."

"I do know that feeling," he said, reaching up to brush a stray bit of hair out of her face. "If anything had happened – "

His thoughts were cut-off by a knock at the door.

"Mrs. Hughes, er rather, Mrs. Carson, it's Dr. Clarkson. Might I come in?"

Elsie jumped to her feet and affixed her husband with her most withering glare.

"His lordship insisted," Charles said, hands thrown in the air in surrender. "Just a precaution. I'm to tell you I was just following orders."

"Likely story," she muttered as she wiped her eyes one last time and threw open the door. "Dr. Clarkson, do come in."

"I understand you have had some excitement, Mrs. Carson. Mr. Carson," the doctor said with a nod.

"Nothing that should have required you being called out, doctor, I assure you. I apologize. It seems we have both been the victims of an overabundance of caution."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" he said with a laugh as he closed the door behind him. "This house really is full of the most reticent of patients." He muttered the last bit as something of an aside, but glanced sharply from housekeeper to butler as if reinforcing his point.

The doctor stepped forward and took her face in his hands, gently turning her head back and forth. She flinched.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" he asked, placing his bag on the table.

"A woman attacked me in the courtyard. She slapped me and tried to strangle me. I suppose I am a bit sore, but I am fine."

"Was that her handiwork I saw in the courtyard as I came in?" Clarkson asked as he leaned closer to peer into her eyes.

"Yes."

"Well, at least you appear to have fared better than her other victim."

Oh good Lord. Charles felt his eyebrows climb towards the sky.

"Mrs. Carson, I would like to get a better look at this bruising. I know it unusual, but the light below stairs here is rather poor. Would you mind stepping outside with me? It's stopped raining and the sun is shining quite nicely."

Elsie eyed the doctor with a healthy skepticism, but ultimately agreed to step out into the gardens.

"Mr. Carson, would you join us?"

Charles fought against rolling his eyes. Good Lord, of course he would join them.

They hugged the wall of the courtyard, giving the butcher who had arrived to inspect the pig a wide berth, before crossing into the gardens. Clarkson was right; the sun was shining nicely. Light danced and sparkled off the drops of moisture that adorned the grasses and trees. A slight breeze had picked up and was carrying with it the rich scents of spring. Of life.

Clarkson spent about twenty minutes standing in the garden path examining the bruises on Elsie's face and neck. He looked again into her eyes and questioned her about where she had pain (her neck did hurt), whether she was having difficulty swallowing (perhaps a bit, she seemed to have a bit of a lump in her throat), if she'd had any breathing difficulties (not once the death grip was loosened from her throat), if she had passed out (no), or if she had any disturbances in her vision (no).

"I am a bit concerned about this raspy quality in your voice," the doctor said. "Does your throat hurt when you speak?"

"No, not strictly. It just feels as though something is catching."

"Well, I'm glad Mr. Carson called me. Strangulation can do serious unseen damage."

Elsie glared at her husband through narrowed eyes, as he looked to his shoes and smirked.

"All the same, I don't think you have too much to worry about," the doctor continued. "You're going to have some swelling here on your cheek. You might want to keep some ice on that. And I imagine you are going to be rather stiff and sore. You should probably go ahead and take a headache powder as soon as you get inside. A warm bath and a hot water bottle on your neck wouldn't go amiss."

"Alright."

"Now, as far as your voice and this catch in your throat, your difficulty swallowing, it may be nothing, but I would like to come back in the morning and evaluate you again."

"Why?" Elsie's eyes flew wide with alarm.

"As I said, it may be nothing, but strangulation can cause damage to the bones and soft tissues in the neck and throat. Unfortunately, there is only a limited amount I can do to help, but if your symptoms don't improve, or if anything gets worse, I might want to put you in a neck brace, just as a precaution."

"I see," she whispered and Charles noticed that her eyes were beginning to mist.

"Is there anything else we should do in the mean time?" Charles asked.

"She is going to be sore and I suspect that the swelling might continue to increase a bit throughout the day. Soft foods would probably be preferable, and do try to rest if you feel tired," he looked pointedly at her, as if he knew his words were likely to fall on deaf ears. "Pain has a way of overwhelming a body and wearing one down. Call me if anything changes and I will come back immediately. Don't feel you must wait for tomorrow."

After a brief exchange of pleasantries the doctor departed, leaving a rather subdued and pensive atmosphere in his wake. They stood side-by-side lost in their individual thoughts for sometime before she reached down and took his hand.

"I suppose we should be getting on," she said, the corners of her mouth turned up into a tight smile.

"Elsie, there is something else we need to discuss before Sgt. Willis arrives, and I would rather not have that conversation inside. Do you feel up to walking a bit?"

She inclined her head as if to nod, but winced and brought her hand to her neck. He looked at her in alarm.

"Really, I'm fine. As long as I remember not to move my head about too much, a stroll might do me some good."

She granted him a dazzling smile and he wondered if she wasn't just trying a bit too hard to calm his anxieties. There was nothing for it, but to keep an eye on her. A close eye, he thought, as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Now, what is this we needed to discuss?" she asked once they had reached a point in the gardens well outside the hearing of anyone but the birds.

"His lordship has decided to go to the police with Smythe's blackmail scheme."

"I see. Well, that will certainly help Anna's case, but won't it cause problems for the family when the contents of the letter come out?"

"That's just it."

"What's just it?" she asked peering at him from the corner of her eye.

"The contents of Mr. Smythe's letter aren't going to come out. They are going to the police with a different secret, an alternative scandal as it were."

"An alternative scandal?"

"Yes, a different secret that might prove worthy of blackmail, but which will raise no issue of potential legal complications for the ladies."

"Oh, dear, poor Lady Edith."

"You knew?" he asked with a start.

"I certainly suspected. It's not entirely ordinary that a young lady from an aristocratic family disappears to the continent for months and then comes home to take in a ward. Or even if it is ordinary, the narrative is really rather implausible."

He furrowed his brow and considered, not for the first time, how very much seemed to happen in the house without his notice.

"Yes, well, that is not the secret to be divulged."

"No?" She eyed him quizzically.

"No, it is what Lord Grantham suggested – not particularly to his credit, I might add – but Lady Mary intervened."

"Lady Mary intervened?" He noted the incredulous tone in her voice with a conscious effort to overlook it.

"Yes, Lady Mary. She was quite insistent."

"Well, that is a surprise. I've not known Lady Mary to take Lady Edith's part in anything before. It seems rather … revolutionary."

He peered down on her with pursed lips.

"Lady Mary suggested, quite vehemently I might add, that the secret was not theirs to tell, that it was Miss Marigold's alone to divulge if she saw fit, as she would be the one most likely to suffer from its release."

"Goodness, that's a rather lofty concept. I take it you're going to tell me what alternate secret is to be released?"

"Lady Mary volunteered the matter with Mr. Pamuk," he said, standing just the slightest bit taller and thrusting out his chin.

"My, my, it seems your golden child has hidden depths," she said, running her hand down his arm to interlace her fingers with his own.

"Now, Mrs. Carson, Lady Mary's attributes should come as no surprise."

"Hmmm, perhaps," she laughed, squeezing his hand. "But how are they to manage all this? I'm not sure I understand. The blackmail letter is what it is."

"It seems," he said, stopping to look down at her from under raised brows, "that Mr. Bates is a master forger."

She watched him for a moment as if trying to find the jest in his words, before pulling him to walk on.

"That Mr. Bates has hidden depths comes as no surprise at all," she said lightly, "but I am a bit surprised that you seem to approve this plan."

"You know very well, it is not my place to approve or disapprove the actions of his lordship."

"Even so, passing a forged blackmail letter to the police? The whole idea seems fraught with peril."

"I admit, it's not a thought I would entertain myself, but if it works I'm not sure I could regret it. He is blackmailing them, after all. And taken out of context his allegations could be quite damaging. Look at the damage he's already caused."

"Poor Anna," she sighed, "I'll approve any plan that brings her out of this safely."

"Have faith, Mrs. Hughes," he teased, "we'll see your golden child home soon."

She laid her head against his arm with a sigh, bringing her free hand up to grip at her neck as they walked on in peaceful silence for a few moments.

"Charles, you do remember that Miss Neale is all but being held captive upstairs, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. I will go up in a moment and check on her. I do think we should ask her to stay and enlighten us and the police as to the previous relationship between Katie and this Smythe character."

"Oh, so it's Katie now, is it?"

"Well, I don't know what to call her. I don't feel I ought to call her Nanny Jenkins, as that was apparently not her name. And Miss Neale doesn't seem quite right either."

"I've a feeling she would have appreciated you calling her Katie."

"Perhaps, but I'm more concerned with you right now."

"I've told you, I'm fine. As things are though, I am not particularly inclined to go upstairs and have another round with Miss Neale."

"Alright, but I would like to have Barrow come in and sit with you."

"Charles, really, I don't need a carer."

"I won't pretend to understand what is going on between the two of you, but I rather think he would feel better if he came and sat with you for a while. He's been uncharacteristically concerned with someone other than himself. Perhaps it is something of a change we should cultivate."

"And since when do you concern yourself with Mr. Barrow's feelings?" she smirked.

"I'm not, but if it serves my purpose in convincing you not to be alone until the police have removed that woman from the house, then so be it."

"Fine, Mr. Barrow may sit and watch me write out next week's rotas. I'm sure that will be most entertaining for both of us." She lifted his hand briefly to her lips and gave it a quick peck. "Will that satisfy you?"

"My dear, we have not even begun to discuss what you could do to satisfy me."

She stopped abruptly and turned to look up at him in mirthful shock. He wasn't certain exactly what he had intended to say, but it certainly wasn't the precise series of words that had come out of his mouth at that moment. He felt his ears reddening under her delighted gaze.

"And on that note," he said, clenching his jaw and pulling her forward towards the house, "let's just go fetch Mr. Barrow."

Her laughter followed down the path behind them. It was a weak, raspy thread – and it was largely at his expense – but it was the sound of her joyful and alive. Charles thought in that moment that it might be the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

"Alright."


	21. The Rolling Pin

They had transferred the stores into the servants' hall to make room for their prisoner, deferring eventually to Mrs. Patmore's insistence that the work of preparing meals could not be done with canned goods lining the floor and great bags of flour, sugar, and rice piled haphazardly about her workspace. Even this plan had proven shortsighted, however, as it only encouraged the servants to gather in the kitchen, lounging about over cups of tea to prattle on about the morning's excitement.

Madge had taken to her bed with a sick headache – a bit of histrionics that Barrow found particularly contemptible given that Mrs. Carson had gotten on with her work in the wake of an actual attempt on her life. Still, he thought, he was altogether glad to be rid of the mewling lady's maid.

Molly had finally calmed. After a full half hour of hysterically screaming and kicking at the inside of storeroom door, she seemed to have resigned herself to her fate. Her faint sobs and the occasional wail carried into the kitchens, however, continued to serve as an ongoing reminder of the days tensions.

"But why would she attack Mrs. Carson like that?" Andy asked. "Mrs. Carson? She seems the last person one might think to harm under any circumstances."

"Not twenty minutes before you were asking if we thought Mrs. Carson were the one what killed that pig," Daisy said, stretching across the table to pile more sandwiches on the platter being prepared for the upstairs luncheon. Mrs. Patmore shook her head and snickered quietly.

"Well, I didn't think it," Andy said, "it just seemed Mr. Barrow did."

"Ah, leave me out of this," Barrow said, taking a sip of his tea, "those ideas were all the imaginings of your fevered mind."

"How is she then?" Phyllis asked. "Was she badly injured?"

"The doctor is with her now," Mrs. Patmore said, "but judging as how she was ordering us all about right afterwards, I'd say she's going to be fine."

"I am going to be fine, Mrs. Patmore, thank you very much." Carson followed closely behind as she entered the kitchen. Barrow noted that she looked to be in fine spirits, but her coloring was dreadful; the bruises were really coming in. And her voice sounded weak and hoarse. Carson just stood hovering silently behind her wearing an expression something akin to shell shock.

"Good, I'm glad to hear it," Mrs. Patmore said, reaching across the table to pat Mrs. Carson's hand where it had come to rest. "Now, what can we get you? You look like you could do with some tea. Daisy."

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore." Daisy jumped as Barrow hadn't seen her do in years.

"Thank you, Daisy," Mrs. Carson said. "Would you mind bringing that to my sitting room? I have some work to catch up on."

"Yes, Mrs. Carson," Daisy said, but her tone was unsure, concerned.

"Do you think you might not want to have a bit of a lie down?" Mrs. Patmore asked hesitantly. "Only you have had quite a scare."

There was a cold silent pause as Mrs. Carson raised a single brow and pursed her lips. She eyed the cook with a fury normally reserved for … well, Barrow wasn't quite certain that he had ever seen that particular expression. And just as quickly, she blinked her eyes and the anger was gone, pushed aside somewhere.

"Really, Mrs. Patmore," she breathed. "I am fine. I just need to return to work."

"Alright. I'm just checking. Even Madge has gone to have a lie down, and all that happened to her is she saw a bloody pig."

Mrs. Carson simply rolled her eyes and turned to leave the room, Carson close on her heels.

"Oh, Mr. Barrow, might we see you for a moment?" Carson intoned from the doorway. Barrow was a bit unnerved by the request itself, as well as the butler's unusually deferential tone. Good Lord, what could the man want now?

"Certainly," he said, hesitantly placing his tea cup on the counter and taking up his crutches to follow Carson down the hall.

Carson ushered Barrow into the housekeeper's sitting room, and closed the door behind them. Barrow watched as the man crossed to stand uncomfortably next to his wife in the center of the room. He glanced to his feet, seemed reluctant, unsure, as if he were trying to gather his faculties before speaking.

"Mr. Barrow," he began slowly, "Mrs. Carson wondered – "

"Ahh," Mrs. Carson sounded sharply. She folded her hands at her waist and turned to eye Carson with a nearly mocking gleam.

"Very well then, we wondered – "

She laughed. Aloud, as best she could with her now weakened voice. Oh good Lord. What was all this?

"Fine. I wondered …" Carson paused and glanced to his wife, who gave a brief inclination of her head before reaching up and rubbing her neck with her hand. "Mr. Barrow, I wondered if you might like to sit here with Mrs. Carson for a time while I took care of some household business."

Barrow felt his brows climb. Admittedly, the two of them had asked several unusual things of him in the past few days – had entrusted him in a way that he had never expected, really – but of all the odd requests, this one certainly stood out. What was this new madness?

"You wondered … what? Sit with Mrs. Carson? How do you mean?"

Carson opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shut it immediately, possibly unable to find words to accurately explain this bizarre appeal. After a moment of indecision, he went wide-eyed and turned desperately to his wife for assistance. She raised a brow and looked at him pointedly, seemingly willing him to proceed, before throwing up her hands with a sigh of resignation.

"Mr. Barrow, it seems that Mr. Carson is preoccupied with concern for my health and safety. Out of an overabundance of caution (she stressed these words emphatically), he is asking that you watch over me while I go about my daily tasks, so I am not left alone. For even a moment, apparently." Her words were laced with an odd mixture of sarcasm and appeasement, clearly directed at her husband.

"I see," Barrow said, drawing his words out slowly as his face broke into a wide grin. Smitten. "And just how long does Mr. Carson feel you will need a caretaker?"

Carson squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. His face reddened a tad as he glanced about the room, undoubtedly looking for some small hole to fold himself into and hide away.

"I can't say precisely," Mrs. Carson said, eyes aglow, "but I believe he may begin to feel more comfortable once the police have collected Molly."

"Well," Barrow said, dropping into the chair next to the door and stretching his legs out ahead of him, "I will gladly sit here for as long as you wish. And, for the record, I can't say but I don't agree with Mr. Carson on this. The woman is clearly a lunatic."

To say that his comments were met with shock would be an understatement of the highest order. Carson looked down at him like he was an altogether new thing he had just discovered. Mrs. Carson just rolled her lips and fought back the smile that threatened to overtake her face before settling into her desk chair.

Carson opened his mouth to speak, but was once again interrupted, this time by Daisy's arrival with Mrs. Carson's tea.

"Yes," Carson said, tugging at his waistcoat, "well, I'll be back shortly. Thank you, Mr. Barrow." He paused and looked meaningfully into Barrow's eyes as he said this last bit. Barrow just smiled and gave a slight nod.

As the door closed, Mrs. Carson turned to her desk, took up her pen and immediately began writing in one of her ledger books. Barrow watched her as she ran the ink across the page and took the occasional sip from her tea. She said she was fine, but she still seemed so very pale and he was certain that he had noticed her hand shaking as she raised the cup to her lips. He wondered if it was simply his imagination that led him to see this wholly new fragility about her.

"I imagine you are weary of people asking you this, but are you truly well, Mrs. Carson?"

He could just see the edge of her face and he watched as her mouth twitched up slightly into a smile.

"Yes, Mr. Barrow," she said. "On both counts. But I do appreciate your concern."

Barrow looked to his shoes and wondered if he could just sit quietly or if he shouldn't be doing more to fill the silence that surrounded them. It was unusual that anyone sought out his company. He found he wasn't sure how to negotiate the exchange.

"And how is Molly?" she asked rather suddenly.

He pondered how to best answer, what she was actually asking.

"Contained," he finally decided on.

"I suppose that's a relief," she sighed. "Tell me, did she ever mention these younger brothers she was sustaining to you?"

"No, I never heard any mention of her family."

"I suppose it's something we should look into. We can't allow these boys to starve simply because their sister's not right."

He stared at her in shock, momentarily dumbfounded by her suggestion.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" she asked absently, her pen continuing to scratch across the page.

He furrowed his brow, searching for the proper word. What did he mean, really?

"Care. Why would you concern yourself with the welfare of some boys whose only tie to you is that their sister just tried to murder you in the yard? That is, if they exist at all."

She turned her chair abruptly and with a great grin on her face studied him as if she were looking straight through him.

"And why wouldn't I, Thomas?" she asked softly, turning back to the desk. "Should I not care about the welfare of young orphan boys then?"

Barrow squared his shoulders and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They were suddenly treading dangerously close to a conversation he never intended to have. Oh good Lord. How did I not anticipate this? He wondered.

"Mrs. Carson, the policemen are here, in the kitchen," Andy said as he pushed open the door and stuck his head through.

Barrow had never been so thankful for an interruption.

* * *

"Good Lord, you do look a sight," Officer Taylor said as Mrs. Carson entered the kitchen with Barrow following close behind.

Mrs. Carson stopped short and eyed the man with a certain level of indignant amazement.

In the ensuing shocked silence, Barrow surveyed the room. It seemed that half the household was gathered to greet the officers: Phyllis, Andy, the two hall boys who had brought Molly into the yard. Madge had arisen from her bed and joined them. Of course, Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were there. And Lily had returned from her shift in the nursery. With the officers, a dozen people now crowded the kitchen. Barrow had the fleeting thought that if anyone else were to join them, they might have to move the work table out into the hall.

It was Lily who first found voice in the wake of Taylor's comment.

"Talking to people innit exactly one of your strengths, is it?" she asked the officer.

Mrs. Patmore barked out a laugh and looked to the floor, shaking her head. The hall boys nearly collapsed into hysterics.

"Yes, well, good afternoon, Mrs. Carson," Sgt. Willis said, stepping forward to turn the focus. "Mrs. Patmore has just been filling us in on this morning's events. And the dead swine in the yard told us quite a lot as well. I understand there were a number of witnesses to this attack, including Lord Grantham?"

"Did the bloody pig tell you that last bit 'erself?" the older hall boy asked, dissolving into a new fit of hysteria.

Barrow barely contained a snort of laughter. "Alright, that's enough," he said, constructing a withering glance to shoot in the hall boy's direction.

"As I was saying," Sgt. Willis said, "it seems there were a good number of witnesses to your attack, and we will of course need to get statements from each of you, but for now, we would like to see this girl, your attacker."

"Of course," Mrs. Carson said, reaching for the keys at her waist and moving confidently towards the store cupboard.

"Mrs. Carson, wait," Barrow said, reaching out to take her elbow. She turned to face him with a start looking from his hand on her arm to his face with questioning eyes. "Let the boys unlock the door and bring her out. Give the key to Andy."

She looked at him skeptically and then glanced around the room, as a quiet murmur of agreement grew from the group.

"We don't know how she will react to you," he said plainly.

"Alright," she said quietly, hesitantly passing the keys to Andy.

Andy, for his part, looked none too thrilled to have been volunteered for this particular task. He reached out to take the keys, giving Mrs. Carson a grimace that might have been intended as a reassuring smile before shooting Barrow a venomous glower.

They knew immediately when the door had been opened by the extended sounds of screams and scuffle that carried back into the kitchen. After several tense moments, the hall boys came back into the kitchen dragging Molly between them. Andy followed momentarily, holding his face. He looked up and removed his hands to reveal the harsh scratches along both his cheeks.

"Oh, Andy," Daisy called as she rushed to soak a towel in cold water to press against the footman's face.

The hall boys thrust Molly at Officer Taylor and backed away as if they were delivering an armed grenade. Taylor grabbed her by the arm, holding her at a distance as if he neither knew what to do with her, nor particularly cared to touch her. In truth, she was somehow even more disheveled and dirty than she had been before being placed in the cupboard, Barrow noticed.

"So, you're the one that tried to kill Mrs. Carson here earlier this morning," Sgt. Willis said approaching to eye the girl closely. He sniffed and crumpled his nose as if overcome with a feeling of disgust. "Anything to say for yourself then?" Barrow frowned and wondered if such a technique had ever actually produced any useful response.

"I did no such thing. And I don't have to talk to you," Molly snapped. Predictably, Barrow thought.

"No, no you don't," Sgt. Willis said, moving closer to the girl's face. "You don't have to talk to us here, but when we get you back to headquarters you'll talk. Oh, I assure you, you'll talk."

So that was the game, Barrow thought. And it seemed to be working. For the first time, Barrow thought he saw genuine and immediate fear in the girl's eyes.

At that, Molly broke free from the officer's grip. She went careening towards the hall, running headlong into Molesley as he entered the kitchen fresh from his hunt, and landing in a twisted heap with the man on the floor, just inside the door. Molesley emitted a noise from his mouth that sounded like something between a freight train, a dynamite explosion, and a peahen cry.

"Well, Mr. Molesley, it seems you've located our pig killer," Barrow drawled. "Good on you."

Phyllis looked at Barrow and scowled.

It seemed an age that Molly and Molesley tousled about on the floor, scrambling over one another, trying to gain some purchase. The officers rushed forward to dance around the pair with apparently no idea how to resolve the impasse.

Just as Molly finally managed to get her feet below her, jumping up as if to take off again, Daisy reached out and grabbed up a rolling pin off the table. With one long step she swung and brought the pin down heavily into the back of Molly's knee. Molly went screaming back to the floor.

Everyone else froze in a state of perfect astonishment. Andy, in particular, looked on the scene eyes wide with shock.

"Daisy?" Mrs. Patmore called quietly as she moved slowly towards the girl. It wasn't clear whether Daisy hadn't heard or just ignored the cook entirely.

"Don't you move," Daisy said, leaning over Molly and waving the rolling pin menacingly in her face. "Mr. Molesley, get up."

Molesley lay nearly motionless on his back, mouth gaping open, eyes darting about the room, looking for all the world like a great overturned tortoise.

"Really, Mr. Molesley, do get up," Mrs. Carson chastised. Phyllis moved forward to help him to his feet and into the room, as Sgt. Willis and Officer Taylor bent down to gather up Molly.

"Try to keep hold of her this time," Daisy said, glowering at Taylor. She then turned to press the rolling pin into Mrs. Patmore's hand, and with a nod towards Mrs. Carson she walked out of the room. Seconds later, they heard the backdoor slam shut.

"Andy, run upstairs and fetch his lordship and Mr. Carson," Mrs. Carson said. "Mr. Carson is in the drawing room. He should know where to find his lordship."

Andy's reply was just a tad shaky, almost fearful.

"Alright."


	22. Col Mustard in the Kitchen

**_Well, hello..._**

* * *

Charles waited in strained silence with Miss Neale outside the green baize door as the footman ran to fetch Lord Grantham and Mr. Bates. The moments spent alone with his former performing colleague seemed to Charles to have stretched out interminably, as without his wife's assistance he had found himself incapable of steering this woman into any sort of productive conversation.

She had prattled on incessantly about how wonderful it was to see him again, about how well he had done for himself, about the house, about the ladies and their fashions, about that 'handsome young man' (Mr. Barrow), about how put out she was at being forced to wait for him to return from wherever he had gotten off to, but that, yes, naturally she forgave him immediately. Any attempts he made at getting a more detailed account of the relationship between Miss Neale's niece and the former groom's assistant had been immediately squelched by the woman's ongoing chatter.

It wasn't until Andrew entered the room to deliver word that the police were waiting downstairs that Miss Neale had fallen silent. Blissfully silent, Charles thought. It was odd. Reaching back in his memory, he didn't recall the woman being quite so garrulous. Of course, if he was honest he had to admit that Lillian had never really captured much of his attention.

"I understand they are waiting for us in the kitchen," His Lordship said absently as he finally crossed the hall towards Charles with Ladies Mary and Edith, as well as Mr. Bates and Andrew in tow.

"I believe so m'lord," Charles responded.

Reaching Charles's side, His Lordship suddenly stopped short and inclined his head slightly towards the stranger in their midst, eyes wide in surprise at the presence of an unexpected visitor.

"M'lord, may I present Miss Lillian Neale?" Charles said, looking past His Lordship's shoulder to observe Lady Mary's raised eyebrows and appraising glare.

"Miss Neale," His Lordship uttered, raising his own brows towards Charles in silent question.

"M'lord, I believe if we could just continue downstairs to join the others, the reason for Miss Neale's presence will make itself clear momentarily. I expect she will be most … helpful in the ongoing investigation."

His Lordship eyed them both skeptically.

"Here now, Papa," Lady Mary said, pushing forward behind her father, "if Carson believes this woman can be of some assistance in this matter, well I can't imagine how, but by all means we must trust him."

"Just as we always do," Lady Edith supplied a bit too heartily, but with an open smile.

"M'lord?" Carson said after a brief pause, opening the door and standing back so that the earl could pass through, "after you."

"Of course," Lord Grantham said, shooting one last skeptical glance in Miss Neale's direction as he passed her to descend the stairs followed quickly by the rest of the party.

A chorus of voices called out, "m'lord" as the earl entered the kitchen and the butler stepped from the final step. The voices spun out too loud, too many, too sharp, too free, too wild, Charles thought as he turned the corner only to walk directly into the back of a surprised Miss Neale. Pushing past her with a muttered apology, he noted that a small army, an invading tribe perhaps, seemed to have taken up residence in the room, leaving the late-comers spilling out into the hall as they tried to edge their way inside. Charles found the scene at once familiar and not familiar at all – their faces familiar and not familiar at all, like the expectant faces of the masses crowding along a busy London sidewalk during the season. He just needed to focus, he told himself, find his familiar amongst the foreign. He laughed inwardly at the irony of this thought.

She was stood nearly in the center of the kitchen. Mr. Barrow was hovering protectively over her left shoulder and maintaining a steady glare at Molly, who was being restrained by Sgt. Willis and Officer Taylor grasping her arms on either side. The girl was a mess. Somehow during her time in the store cupboard, she had grown even more filthy and disheveled. Charles had the brief thought that he should have the hall boys scrub the cupboard out well before replacing the stores.

Madge, Molesley, and Miss Baxter were huddled in a knot in the corner, whispering back and forth in quiet, solemn tones. Mrs. Patmore was behind the table, leaning on the surface and looking about wide-eyed as if trying to determine how to best get this motley crowd out of her workspace and get on with the business of the day. Lily, the kitchen maid, was behind the table as well, flanked by a pair of giggling hall boys whose minds were clearly occupied with lower pursuits than either work or justice.

"I'm going to go find Daisy," Andrew muttered from somewhere behind Charles's left shoulder.

Charles nodded mutely at the words, which barely registered in his conscience. Thinking it best to cull the crowd somewhat, Charles opened his mouth to dismiss those staff members who were not needed, but was immediately cut off.

"Mrs. Carson," Lady Mary called, moving with singular determination through the parting crowd to the housekeeper's side, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm well. Thank you, m'lady." Mrs. Carson smiled warmly, but Charles noted the strain that still dominated her voice, and the darkening bruising across her cheek and throat that belied all efforts at pretense.

Lady Edith trailed into the room behind her sister, giving the housekeeper a wan smile before turning unceremoniously and lifting herself above the fray to sit on the work table. Lady Mary glanced quickly around the crowded room, and with a slight sigh followed her sister's example, perching on the edge of the table with ankles crossed.

Brows raised and lips pursed, Mrs. Patmore leaned to one side to glance past the two ladies sat in her workspace towards Charles, her mirth-filled eyes conveying a silent question. Charles did the only thing he could think to do in the circumstance: he shrugged and shook his head.

It was strange to see the girls, as Charles still thought of them, seeming to act in unison. He was suddenly struck by the notion that if the two of them managed to remain in agreement for any period of time, they might just comprise a formidable force that was more than any of the household could have bargained for.

"Dr. Clarkson has been out to see you then?" Lord Grantham asked, as Bates quickly squeezed through the crowd to fill in an empty spot on the other side of Barrow.

"Yes, m'lord," Mrs. Carson said tightly.

"And, you're sure that all is well?"

"Just a bit of soreness and bruising. Nothing more to worry about." Charles raised his brows and looked at his wife pointedly.

"Miss Neale," Sgt. Willis said with a start, noticing her presence for the first time as he looked past his lordship's shoulder, "I didn't expect to find you here."

An awkward hush fell over the group as dozens of eyes seemed to dart across Miss Neale's face before turning to silently seek explanation from Charles.

"You two know each other?" Lady Mary finally broke the silence with a question she directed at Sgt. Willis while continuing to maintain eye contact with Carson.

"Of course," Sgt. Willis replied. "Miss Neale was Miss Jenkins's aunt. Her only living relative, apparently. It seems, she raised her."

"She what?" Lady Mary gasped. "Carson, did you know about this?"

"I only just learned this morning, m'lady."

"And did Nanny Jenkins know about your connection to her family?" Lady Mary asked. Charles swallowed at the lump that was forming in his throat.

"Yes, m'lady, she did." He looked to the floor, making an intense study of his shoes in a desperate attempt to escape Lady Mary's piercing gaze and mentally berating himself for somehow not anticipating this turn of events.

"Connection?" Sgt. Willis asked, eyebrows raised. "What connection is this?"

His lordship glanced back and forth between Lady Mary and Charles, searching their faces for answers. Charles opened his mouth to speak, but finding himself without words turned dumbly to seek his wife's eyes for assistance as the expectant silence grew increasingly palpable.

"Oh, Charlie and I go way back," Miss Neale interjected. Her voice seemed to fairly drip with an odd level of displaced pride and affection. "We worked together on the stage years ago."

"The stage?" Molesley exclaimed in that way that only Molesley ever could, before Miss Baxter reached out to place a silencing hand on his forearm. Charles felt himself shrinking.

"Oh, yes," Miss Neale gushed, obviously warming to her now rapt audience. "Charlie was quite the talented song and dance man in his day."

A brief volley of snickers erupted from the direction of the hall boys, but was quickly silenced by matching glares from Mr. Bates and – of all people – Mr. Barrow, much to Charles's surprise and wonder.

"My sister – Katie's mother, that is – and I had our own singing act," Miss Neale continued to prattle on. "Charlie traveled with the same company. We were all such very good friends. I hadn't seen him for ages before today, though."

"Nanny Jenkins knew of this connection, but she never told you, Carson? That seems a bit odd," Lady Edith said, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

While Lady Edith became lost in trying to puzzle out this mystery, both His Lordship and Lady Mary quickly glanced to Charles, their nervous faces immediately registering the potential implications of Miss Neale's revelations. Unfortunately, they were not the only ones quickly piecing it together.

"Well, how 'bout that?" Molly sneered from her place between the two officers. "Old man Carson was keeping a bastard daughter on the job in the nursery. Ain't that something?"

Lily audibly gasped, and Madge inexplicably began to sob. Lady Edith swung her feet nervously in front of her and looked to her ankles. Molesley cleared his throat. Repeatedly.

"Watch your tongue, girl," Mrs. Patmore called out, shaking a threatening sauce pan above her head without regard to the several feet and several bodies between herself and her intended victim. "We'll tolerate no more from the likes of you today."

"This house is just awash in scandal, much worse than anything I ever done," Molly continued, ignoring the cook entirely. "And you people have a nerve to lock me in a bloody closet." She then turned her head and spat on the floor near Officer Taylor's shoe, leaving Mrs. Patmore to slam her pot down on the table in disgust.

"Well, this is certainly interesting," Officer Taylor said, even as he jerked Molly by the arm in an effort to bring her under control. "Keeping an illegitimate child under wraps has certainly been motive for murder on more than one occasion. Mr. Carson, what have you to say about all this?"

A sudden wave of cold nausea swept over Charles. The air around him seemed overwhelmingly still, stifling even. Shallow breaths seemed to catch on a newly-formed ridge in his throat and he felt himself sway. He looked to the floor, thinking madly that if he could just find a single point to focus on, then perhaps the room – the house, the Empire, the world – would stop spinning so wildly out of control and he could just think.

Then he felt her hand – softly, steadily, slipping into his own. Somehow, in the midst of all this madness, Elsie had quietly made her way to his side. He looked down into her eyes and found himself returning her smile. And just like that, their fingers interlaced and he could breathe.

"Oh, no, I never meant to imply – " Miss Neale was shaking her head vehemently, her hand at her throat and eyes wide open in apparent terror at the implications being drawn from her words. Charles briefly wondered if her performance wasn't just a bit contrived at this point. What exactly had she meant to imply with all of this?

"Well, well. I must commend you, Officer Taylor," Barrow drawled sarcastically. "I wouldn't have imagined it possible to conceive of a less likely murder suspect than Anna Bates, but somehow you've managed it. Good on you."

"Any man who would abandon his child – "

"Is a murderer?" Barrow laughed.

"Carson would never – " Lady Mary began, but she was cut-off by Barrow plowing forward with what was quickly becoming a tirade.

"Well, Mr. Carson and I are not such very good friends," he all but shouted, with a pointed glare towards Miss Neale, "but even I know that the man would sooner cut off his right arm than abandon a child to be raised by show folk. And I know a thing or two about the type of man who abandons a child."

Barrow's insubordinate interruption of Lady Mary went largely unnoticed as a stunned silence fell over the entire room in response to his words. The quiet was broken only by the occasional sniffing from Madge, who was still inexplicably crying.

Charles glanced towards Barrow. The younger man's jaw was tightly clenched and he appeared to be frozen in place, making an intense study of the cabinets across the room, until Mr. Bates reached up and clapped him on the shoulder. Barrow flinched.

"Well, now," Sgt. Willis finally found his voice, as he rocked back on his heels with a glance towards his subordinate, "I don't think we need jump to any such conclusions quite yet."

"Yes, I should say there have been quite enough conclusions jumped to in this matter already," Lord Grantham said. He tugged at his waistcoat with the air of one trying to reassert a sense of dignity to wholly undignified proceedings.

"As I was saying," Miss Neale interrupted, "I never meant to imply that Charlie was Katie's father or that he was in any way – "

"Well, whatever did you mean to imply then?" Lady Mary asked abruptly, smoothing her skirts and eying the woman with an expression something akin to that of a large cat preparing to pounce. "I suspect you knew exactly how your words would be interpreted."

Miss Neale swallowed tightly and looked on Lady Mary with obvious trepidation. Her fear, Charles thought, was not wholly misplaced.

"M'lady, if I may?" Elsie very nearly whispered. She released his hand and stepped forward slightly to flash the young lady a quick grin. He felt the distance immediately. "Miss Neale, when we met earlier you indicated that your niece – the woman we all knew as Nanny Jenkins – and Harold Smythe might have known each other before they came into His Lordship's employment."

"What?" Lady Edith fairly hissed. "Nanny Jenkins and Harold were acquainted before they came to Downton?"

"Oh yes," Miss Neale said, her head bobbing wildly up and down. "Of course. We've known Harold since he was just a boy."

"I take it this is the information you expected Miss Neale could provide, Carson?" Lord Grantham whispered in Charles's direction.

"Yes, m'lord. It certainly wasn't the other." Charles fought a valiant battle against the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes.

"No, I expect not, old chap," Lord Grantham chuckled and slapped Charles on the back. He felt his eyebrows climb toward the ceiling as he wondered back to just what exactly he could have found so problematic about his situation before Lillian Neale showed up on the doorstep to divulge the secrets of his past and fuel spurious speculation amongst his family and staff. Certainly, any previous challenges suddenly paled in comparison to all this.

"Miss Neale," Lord Grantham began rather loudly, "how exactly did you and, er, your niece know this Smythe fellow?"

"Well, it began when he was about four or five years old. I would say he sort of followed her home one day and just stayed."

"Followed her home?" Lady Mary asked incredulously. "Are we discussing a boy or a stray dog?"

"Sounds like a bit of both," Mrs. Patmore snorted.

"Yes well, perhaps he was," Miss Neale said, her voice taking on something of a wistful tone. "A bit of both, that is."

Mrs. Patmore barked out a single monosyllabic laugh. Ladies Mary and Edith shared a furtive glance and matching smirks. Elsie rolled her lips to fight back the grin that was quickly spreading across her own face, and looked to the ground. It was clear that Miss Neale was beginning to lose a bit of credibility with her audience.

"Perhaps," Sgt. Willis began slowly, quietly, oh so patiently, "perhaps, if you could just explain precisely what you mean when you say he followed her home."

She affixed the man with the steady glare of one who knows to a certainty that she has been mocked.

"I mean, Sergeant, precisely what I say. One day when Katie was sixteen-years-old, she went down to the shore with some other young members of the company and came back with a child."

If Miss Neale's audience had been threatening to abandon her before, her delivery of this single line had captured their immediate and rapt attention.

"We were in Blackpool for the month of July that year, doing nine shows a week, staying in some barren little hovel of a hotel, as usual, and trying to trick the promoter into actually giving us our wages, as usual. The weather was sweltering that summer and Katie was being courted by some second-rate Italian magician, in whom she had absolutely no interest. Anyway, as I said, one morning she went to the shore with this group of young people and when she came home that afternoon, this boy was straggling behind her. And then he just stayed." She said this last bit with little more than a shrug of her shoulders.

"But, where did he come from?" Lady Edith asked.

"I never knew, really. She said she found him on the beach and he just took to her. She always was good with children."

"Yes, she was," Lady Mary said, her mouth forming a small, solemn smile. "She was good with the children."

"But, did you not look for his parents?" Molesley asked, temporarily reminding everyone that he was still present and could, on occasion, manage to ask a remarkably sensible question.

"He said he had no parents, claimed not to even know his own name. Katie was the one who started calling him Harold. She said she got the name from some old poem she once read, said the boy needed a proper name. Of course, she was right, but I never thought it was her place to name the child."

"Miss Neale, are you suggesting that your niece simply scooped a child up off the street and took him to raise?" Elsie asked.

"Oh, I'll admit, the details sound rather unusual, but the overall story isn't really, not at the heart of it. Don't we all take on other people's children to raise when the situation arises, when it becomes necessary?" she asked with a tilt of her head.

Charles was taken aback by her words, but as he glanced around the room it struck him that perhaps there was a kernel of truth there, at the heart of the matter as she said.

"What was he like?" Lady Edith asked almost wistfully. "As a child, what was he like?"

Oh good Lord. The last thing this room needed was the airing of more swirling secrets and accompanying assumptions, Charles thought.

"Oh, he was awful," Miss Neale said dismissively. "Forever finding trouble, forever starting a fight with some local child wherever we went. Once he was with us, there were even suggestions of pets going missing in towns the company visited. A gypsy palm reader who used to travel with us abandoned her act and left the company saying she couldn't stand to be in the boy's presence. That seemed a bit harsh at the time, but truthfully, he caused me no end of problems from the moment I first laid eyes on him. And what he did to Katie, it's a wonder she lasted as long as she did, really."

"What he did to Katie?" Charles asked with a start.

"Yes. It was a peculiar relationship from the beginning. There was something there that I could never quite put my finger on to explain, but even as a child he always seemed to dominate her. He influenced her far more than she influenced him, and always in a most negative manner."

"Influenced her?" Lord Grantham asked, eyebrows raised. "How?"

"It really started in earnest a few years after he had been with us, around the time Harold was about eight-years-old, at least that's when I truly saw it. The company began to have a lot of complaints about pocket-picking in the audiences of our shows. Well, naturally, we had to put a stop to that kind of behavior immediately. Nothing drives an audience away faster than rumors of pick-pocketing. And without an audience … "

"The boy was a pick-pocket at eight-years-old?"

"Just so. It wasn't the first time I noticed his criminal tendencies, mind. I knew he had developed a lot of bad habits, most of which involved scamming people on the street. I told Katie she needed to put a stop to it, but she'd just laugh. She couldn't see what he was really like. She seemed to find his petty thieving charming somehow. Precocious. She indulged him terribly. Anyway, that was all well and good, but the company certainly could not allow him to operate freely amongst its audiences, if we wanted to continue to have paying audiences that is."

"I should say not," Sgt. Willis muttered.

"Around this time, Alice, Katie's mother that is, came for an unexpected visit. We were staying in London at the time and hadn't seen Alice in years. This was the first she knew of Harold and she took an instant dislike to the child. She seemed to understand something about him that she was unwilling to share, maybe something about his past or his parentage. I never knew, but whatever it was she was insistent that he needed to go, that her daughter should have nothing more to do with him. She acted as if he were evil incarnate, instead of just a troubled boy. In retrospect, she may have been right. And seeing as Alice had never shown even the slightest interest in Katie or her well-being, I took her words seriously."

"What did you do?" Lily asked breathlessly, eyes wide as saucers as she took in the spectacle of storytelling that had swallowed her responsibility for any daily chores.

"Well, nothing as it turned out. But, of course, by that time Katie was grown and well beyond my control. When she took it that it was Harold or her family, she chose the boy and left – moved off to Blackpool, I believe at his suggestion. He was always trying to get back to Blackpool."

"Blackpool." Charles looked up sharply as Barrow echoed the word, slowly rolling the letters about in his mouth as if tasting their implication with the full surface of his tongue. "Blackpool."

"Yes, Blackpool," Miss Neale looked to Barrow quizzically. "The lived in Blackpool for, oh, I'd say more than a decade. I heard very little from Katie during that time. I'm afraid she got involved with elements and activities in Blackpool of which she thought I might not approve."

"Like what?" Lily breathed.

"Hush, girl," Mrs. Patmore said, batting at her arm with a tea towel. "Let the woman speak."

"I'm not sure what precisely they did in Blackpool for support, but, as I said, I heard little from her for years. And then, one day she just turned up in London and announced that she was ready to put both Harold and the past firmly behind her and move on with a more respectable life. Naturally, I did the best I could to support this decision."

"But why? Why after all these years was she ready to just abandon him?" Lady Edith asked.

"I don't know what brought about the change. She said that she had just finally grown up, but I always suspected there was something more, something about Harold, something she had finally seen in him. Of course, by that time Harold was grown as well. I've never seen him again myself, but there were times when she talked about him that she seemed frightened in a way I had never seen her. I didn't want to imagine what could have possibly caused that fear."

Charles ran his hand across his face and worked to regulate his breathing. He didn't want to imagine it either.

"Regardless, she was determined to put him in her past and move forward to a more respectable life."

"This is when she became a nanny?" Lady Mary asked.

"Yes, although you can imagine it wasn't quite that simple for her to make that transition. Somehow, with quite a bit of effort, she managed to find a job with a respectable family, and then another one. The problem was Harold. No matter where she went, he always seemed to find her, and place demands of one kind or another on her. She lived in constant fear of her employers discovering their relationship, her past."

"But how did he find her?" Lady Edith asked.

"I've no idea, but no matter how she tried, she simply could not get away from him. Once she was here, at Downton, she finally wrote to me admitting that Harold was pressuring her to pass him information about the family – information he could use for blackmail, I imagine. He was pressing her, you see, threatening to expose her past and ruin her, threatening to see that she lost her job in this house that she had really come to love. In the end, she was quite afraid, but just as determined that he would not cause harm to anyone here. She was really quite fond of all of you. I wish I could say otherwise, but it is no surprise to me to discover that Harold eventually caused her such harm."

"Are you suggesting that Mr. Smythe killed your niece?" Officer Taylor asked incredulously.

Miss Neale cocked her head to one side and eyed him steadily.

"You say that as if the very idea surprises you. Have you been listening to what I've said at all? Have you investigated her murder at all?"

His Lordship raised his brows and turned to look at Miss Neale with an expression that might only be described as open admiration. Sgt. Willis shifted nervously from one foot to another.

"Of course. We have a suspect in custody."

"What, that little slip of a girl that I saw at the police headquarters?" she asked with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Why my Katie could have easily fought her off. And whatever gave you the idea that she had done it to begin with? She certainly doesn't look the type."

Bates looked to his feet, trying to hide the smirk that had grown across his face.

"And just what does the type look like then?" Officer Taylor asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "This woman here, all these people say they saw her try to kill Mrs. Carson. Does she look the type?" He pulled Molly forward harshly by her arm, very nearly throwing her in front of Miss Neale for inspection. Molly howled.

Miss Neale calmly eyed the girl up and down, taking in her untamed hair, battered face, wild-eyed countenance, tattered blood-stained clothing.

"Yes."

Barrow laughed.

"Sgt. Willis," Lord Grantham said steadily, "if you would accompany me to Mr Carson's pantry for a few moments, I think I may be able to provide you with some information that will shed additional light on this matter."

His Lordship turned on his heel and marched determinedly from the room, leaving no opportunity for dissent. Ladies Mary and Edith lowered themselves from the table onto the floor and followed their father through the parting crowd and into the hall.

With a final skeptical glance towards Miss Neale, Sgt. Willis gave the only response left available to him.

"Alright."


End file.
